


In Sleep, He Sang to Me; In Dreams, He Came

by humapuma



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Dance Instructor Natasha, Falling In Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mystery, Not Canon Compliant, Opera Singer Steve, POV Steve Rogers, Phantom Bucky, Phantom of the Opera AU, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humapuma/pseuds/humapuma
Summary: The dancers exited the stage and waited for their next part. Steve was grateful that he wouldn’t need to change into a new costume again, since the one he had on was so complicated. As he stood, watching the singers serenade each other, he heard something again. He couldn’t explain it but…… someone unseen was calling to him, saying his name.Steve Rogers is a danseur at the Opéra Populaire in Paris, but he longs to sing lead tenor in the shows. One night, he hears a dark, melodic voice, and is compelled to follow it. This voice - this Angel - promises to train him, but on one condition: Steve must sing only forhim.But he will soon learn that this "Angel" is nothing he could have expected and, when a mirror in his dressing room opens, Steve is led into a labyrinth of darkness that he will never want to escape from.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 146
Kudos: 142





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO. Hi. :) How are you? I'm back! I'm so proud of this fic! It's a collab with beautiful art from HopelessGeek, kocuria, and others! There are so many things going on these days but I hope that this fic will bring some happiness.  
> I had never really been into Phantom of the Opera until the last couple of months and I kept telling myself I wouldn't write a Stucky AU... and then I did. But I'm so pleased with it. Just... yeah, I'm very, very happy.
> 
> If you've read my Tarzan AU, you know that I like to include aspects from a variety of sources, but especially the original work. This story features ideas from Gaston Leroux's novel, the silent film, and Andrew Lloyd Weber's musical, with my own spin on them!
> 
> Shout out to my beta, dixons_mama, for being so awesome and supportive. Thanks to Sissy2D for giving me some great feedback when I was struggling.
> 
> I hope you love reading it as much as I loved writing it. <3

__

_Opéra Populaire – 1881_

_Prologue_

The dressing room was loud and busy as the dancers struggled into their costumes for the next act. Steve was grateful that he didn’t have to wear a corset like many of the women, but that didn’t mean that the men’s garb was comfortable. He reached around himself, buckling the shining golden garters and clasps, and he could already feel the sweat beading.

The room had no ventilation and that meant that, in the summer, while ten or more dancers crowded into it, the temperature rose. He checked himself in the mirror, ensuring that his stage makeup had not begun to bleed, and that was when he caught them looking at him.

Looking away, he hoped that they would simply ignore him, though it seemed his wish had been ignored. “Oh, Steve,” Hela cooed as she approached. He was sure that was simply her stage name – who would name their child that? “I heard you praying again last night. Tell me,” she giggled, “has your mother sent that angel to you?”

Steve sighed but didn’t answer, instead turning to focus on fastening the last few buttons on the outfit.

“Those who speak of what they know,” a woman’s voice said and Steve turned to find their choreographer there, “find too late that prudent silence is wise.”

“Madame Romanov,” she said, bowing her head in respect. Without another word, she returned to her own mirror and finished dressing.

Steve looked away and adjusted his bodice before he felt a gentle hand on his back. “Madame Romanov,” he said, meeting her eyes in his mirror, “what is it?”

Her gorgeous red hair was streaked with grey but her age hardly showed on her face. Despite being in her fifties, and a life-long dancer at that, Madam Romanov was able to show them most of the moves, even the tour en l’air and the arabesque, with ease. 

As she opened her mouth to speak, another voice called out, “One minute ‘til curtain!”

Steve gasped and yanked his slippers on, paying no more mind to her, and ran toward the door with the other dancers. Carol was finishing the third act’s aria, her blue dress flowing as she moved from one end of the stage to the next, gracefully seducing the audience with her voice.

_God_ , Steve wanted to be up there with her. The audience was enthralled by her elegance and movements, just as he was. Right on cue, Signore Tony Stark entered stage right, belting out his tenor that blended so perfectly with Carol’s soprano, and then the dancers came out next. Steve knew the steps perfectly, and he was confident that the others did too.

This was the final showing of _Il Trovatore_ and they would next begin rehearsals for _Hannibal_. As he was swinging Margaret around in their pas de deux, imitating a passionate embrace, he heard a sound from somewhere above him. The music was so loud, he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just his imagination, so he continued focusing on the steps.

The final movement required Steve to lift his partner high above him before releasing her to spin into his waiting arms. As he raised her, he looked beyond her and noticed a shadow move across the bridge where the elevated set lines were tied.

He let go of Margaret and she tumbled into his arms perfectly. They held their places for a few moments while the audience applauded them – or, more likely, Carol and Signore Stark – and then the curtain closed. Steve looked up again, watching the scaffolding for movement but saw none.

In that act, the sets weren’t to be moved, and there was no other reason Steve could think of for anyone to be up there.

The dancers exited the stage and waited for their next part. Steve was grateful that he wouldn’t need to change into a new costume again, since the one he had on was so complicated. As he stood, watching the singers serenade each other, he heard something again. He couldn’t explain it but…

… someone unseen was calling to him, saying his name.

* * *

That night, after Steve had bathed and dressed for bed, he entered the dormitory where the dancers slept. There were four rooms that were shared among them, and each room housed at least six people. He knew that many of his fellows were already asleep, but some lay awake with their candles burning on the small tables they had.

He walked down the aisle to his spot, setting his own taper down. Pulling the covers away, he sat with his back to the wall, relaxing in the cool air.

“I heard Madame Romanov talking to him again – the opera ghost,” he could hear Hela saying in the next room.

“Shh, you fool!” Sif hissed. “There is no ghost.”

Before he even realized what was happening, Steve whispered, “I saw him tonight.”

“Steve,” his friend, Wanda, said in a low voice, “you saw the Phantom of the Opera?”

Nodding, he said, “He was on the scaffolding during the aria.”

“I’m surprised you could keep your countenance,” Margaret said, smirking at him from across the room. “I noticed your lift was a little sloppy.”

Steve laughed quietly but simply shook his head. Just then, another dancer strolled into the room, grinning at them. “Sam,” Steve said, “where have you been?”

“I was just walking Ororo to the singers’ dorms,” he explained, though Steve knew there was more to it than that, but he didn’t ask.

Sam removed his shoes and lay down on his bed. The dorms quieted and the lights began to fade as more and more candles were blown out. Steve’s thoughts turned back to the ghost and that voice he’d heard calling to him.

Sitting up, Wanda asked, “Will you sing for me, Steve? I’m frightened and it always helps me sleep when you do.”

He chuckled. “Are you saying my voice is that boring?”

She glared at him. “You know I’m not.”

Looking around, Steve saw that Sam and Margaret, as well as two of the other dancers had sat up in their beds, watching him in anticipation. He took a breath and began to sing a Gaelic lullaby his mother had taught him when he was a child. Growing up, he would often sing while she played her violin, or she would sing to him in other languages he didn’t know.

“What is that song about?” Margaret asked him as he finished the final verse.

“My mother once told me that it was about a faerie who had fallen in love with a human.” He leaned his head back against the wall, watching as the candle made shadows dance on the ceiling. “Desperate to be with her, he kidnapped her and took her to his realm to live. In time, she came to love him too. What he hadn’t known, however, was that she was very sickly and, without her medicine, she died.”

“What happened then?” Wanda asked.

“He chose to die with her, allowing his immortal body to fade into darkness. They spent eternity together as spirits… phantoms in the woods.”

“That’s sad,” Wanda said, frowning as she looked away.

“Is it?” Steve asked, smiling at her. “To love someone so deeply that you’d follow them into the unknown?”

Margaret watched him for a moment, the fire flickering in her eyes, before she blew out her candle and lay down to sleep. Wanda and Sam soon followed suit and, after a few minutes, Steve’s light was the only one left; the other dorms had even gone dark, leaving Steve alone.

He allowed his thoughts to wander for a time, thinking of the song and its meaning. His attention was brought back to the present when his own candle flickered and, inexplicably, blew out. Steve swallowed, staring at the wick that still burned orange before it, too, disappeared into darkness.

“Steve,” a deep, melodic voice said and he sat up, looking around the room. His breathing had picked up as he searched the area, praying he wouldn’t find anything there. “Steve,” it said again and that was when the figure in the doorway became clearer before darting away down the hall. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Steve rushed after it, trying to keep his steps as quiet as possible so as to not be caught up after curfew. “This way,” the voice called when Steve reached the stairs

He looked down and watched a shadow moving across the floor as he descended, turning to follow where the shadow had gone. His chase ended, however, when he came to a dead end; he’d been so sure the shadow had come this way.

Turning, he began to make his way back to the dormitory when there was a click behind him and he spun around. There, where a solid wall had been only seconds before, was an opening.

“Come,” the voice commanded and Steve felt powerless against it.

He stepped over the threshold and walked down a long, winding corridor. For a moment, he began to worry he’d never find his way out, but that thought was replaced with fear that he’d never be able to go back.

Was the opera ghost the vile, murderous creature that some of the other dancers claimed? Or was he a demon, like the singers said?

After turning another corner, Steve saw light ahead and began to rush toward it, panting from both fear and exertion, but beneath all of that, he felt a trembling excitement. As he neared the doorway, he slowed down and listened intently for any sound coming from within.

He frowned when he was only greeted by silence and stepped inside, noting that the empty room was lit by several candles. His eyes searched around, trying to find any evidence that someone had been there.

Out of the sheer silence that had begun to suffocate him, Steve heard something to his left. Swallowing, he whispered, “Is someone there?” After he spoke, the candles were doused one by one by an unseen hand, slowly bathing the room in darkness. “Who’s there?” Steve demanded, feeling the fear begin to overwhelm him.

“Steve,” that melodic voice called and Steve couldn’t determine where it had come from.

“Show yourself!” He shouted, stepping backward to leave the room but he found that the entrance was gone, as if it had never been there. “Let me out!”

“Steve,” it said again, but the voice was coming from the other side of the room and that minor distance eased the terror that had begun to grow within him.

“Who are you?”

“Your mother said she would send you a guardian,” the voice said, and it sounded like it was coming from a different part of the room, as if it had no physical form and could move about with ease. “An angel.”

Steve couldn’t believe that this was the Angel he’d waited for; the voice was deep, _dark_ , and it made something like warm honey spread inside his abdomen. He turned to try and force the passage open again, to scream for help, until the voice began to sing in its deep baritone. The melody was hauntingly familiar and it felt as though it had wrapped around him and would carry him away if he asked.

He felt like a sleeping bud, ready to burst into bloom beneath the sun’s warm glow, to expose himself fully.

Gulping, Steve fought to catch his breath. “It’s – it _is_ you!” His eyes searched the darkness, hoping to see his visitor. “I’ve… I’ve heard your voice.”

“I’ve sung to you each night,” the voice replied, suddenly very close to Steve, “in your dreams.”

All of the fear within Steve began to fade and he took a deep breath, letting his eyes fall shut. “You’ve always been there… inside my mind.”

“I’ve come to you now,” it continued, and Steve was sure he could feel its breath on his neck.

“Why?” Steve asked, still examining the darkness for the form that he longed to find there.

This was _his_ Angel.

“What is your deepest wish?” It asked. “Tell me.”

Steve trembled as he said, “I want to… I want to sing the tenor. Can you… help me?” His voice had shaken as he spoke and he could have sworn he heard the Angel chuckle. 

“I will teach you,” it agreed. “You will come to me here each night.”

“Why at night?” Steve asked.

The Angel was silent for a long moment before it began to speak again, seemingly closer than it was before. “Don’t fear the darkness,” he breathed, “I am here with you.” Steve could feel a form near him, as if hands were reaching for him, but wouldn’t touch. “You must drop your defenses,” he instructed and Steve was sure the Angel was _right there_ within his grasp. “Completely succumb to me, Steve.”

Steve’s eyes fluttered and he found himself swaying into the sound; the desire to truly feel the Angel’s touch had overwhelmed his sense of right and wrong. However, the sensation of those hands being so near to him began to fade and Steve had to force himself not to beg for their return.

“If this is what you want, you must let go of everything you thought you knew. You must surrender to your darkest dreams. I will teach you and you will sing for _me_.” Then, the voice whispered to him, and Steve felt the hot breath as though it were right in his ear. “Only then… can you belong to me.”

Steve inhaled sharply, feeling something deep and dark within him begin to rise and reach out, trying to take hold of him. Before it could, though, he breathed, “Teach me… please, Angel.”


	2. Act I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! So.... the update schedule is now, kind of... more of a suggestion than a rule.  
> Here is Act I :) Below, you'll find some incredible art by [HopelessGeek](https://twitter.com/Hopelessgeek1) and [KitysAltMeri](https://twitter.com/KitysAltMeri)!

_Act I_

The crowd’s applause followed Steve offstage, past the dancers, and into the backstage area. After his final bow, there had been a standing ovation, and Steve could still hear it. Madame Romanov ushered him away, leading him into the dressing room – _his_ dressing room – after the performance. “I still – I can’t believe I sang the lead,” he said, panting. “It feels like a dream.”

She began helping him out of his costume without answering. The heavy material felt as though it were being peeled off of him and he longed for the hot bath that would be waiting for him. He used the basin to wash the stage makeup off and turned back to her.

“Madame, thank you, thank you, _thank you_ for recommending me following Signore Stark’s... absence.” He dried his face with a cloth and smiled at her.

“You did well,” she said, leading him to the chair before his mirror. “ _He_ will be pleased.”

Steve turned to her, questioning, but she said nothing else and hurried out of the room. He stared after her before looking at himself in the mirror; when a candle behind him flickered, he shut his eyes.

He let the silence overtake him, listening intently, but he didn’t have to wait long before that dark, melodic voice sang, “Bravo, bravo, bravissimo.”

Steve’s eyes fluttered as he smiled and breathed in, reveling in the joy of his success, but also in the knowledge that he had made his teacher proud. Despite the feeling that he was being watched, he removed his underclothes before he stepped behind the partition. There, as he had hoped, was a hot bath waiting for him, and he climbed in to scrub the sweat and remaining makeup from his skin. These luxuries were unheard of when he was merely a dancer. Even the soloists shared the bath with others, and Steve had never seen where the singers lived.

Once clean, he allowed himself to slip beneath the water as he often liked to do. It was only in these moments that he could allow his deepest urges to emerge. He traced his hands along the skin of his arms, over his chest, and down his abdomen. With his eyes closed, he could imagine he felt another’s hands, rubbing along the swell of his muscles.

He’d just barely reached his hips when there was a knock at his door and he shot out of the water. “Steve? Steve, are you in here?”

“Wait,” he called and climbed out of the tub, grabbing the towel hanging nearby to dry himself.

He hastily pulled his linen shirt and trousers on and was about to respond when he felt something change in the room, something barely noticeable. And then, “Steve,” the Angel’s voice whispered and Steve _knew_ he was somewhere within, unseen.

He’d felt it all along.

“Steve,” Sam said as he opened the door, “you decent?” Steve nodded his head but was breathing far too hastily to answer. “That was incredible! I had no idea you could sing like that. Who is this teacher Madame Romanov mentioned?”

Steve hesitated, looking around the room. “You remember I told you that, before my mother died, she said… she told me that she would send a guardian to help me.” Sam nodded his head and Steve continued, “I used to dream of him. I could hear his voice in my sleep and, now, when I sing, I sense him. He’s always there.”

The feeling of being watched began to intensify and Steve took Sam’s wrist to lead him toward the dressing table. He sat down in a rush as a tension filled his abdomen, making it harder to breathe. Steve could feel the eyes on him, intense and silent, yet no one else was in the room.

“He’s with me… even now, Sam” Steve breathed and Sam touched his hand. 

“Steve,” he said, patting his arm to get his attention. “You must have been dreaming. You sound like you’ve been talking to Madame Romanov about her Phantom.”

He had hardly listened to what Sam was saying. Looking around, Steve thought he saw the large wall-length mirror move, somehow, but when he blinked, everything was exactly as it was supposed to be.

“I wish… I wish he would let me see him,” Steve whispered to himself.

Sam’s brow furrowed as he watched and, after a few seconds, he began searching the room as well, as if he’d begun to sense the presence that had followed Steve for nearly a year. Kneeling down, Sam opened his mouth to speak when the door burst open and Madame Romanov came inside.

“Samuel Wilson,” she bellowed, “are you not a dancer?”

Steve rushed to tuck his shirt in now that he was in the presence of a lady. He slicked his hair back, trying to look presentable despite the haste with which he had dressed himself.

“Yes,” Sam answered, looking down, “Madame.” 

“Then I would suggest you get back to the rehearsal. The performance tonight was a _disgrace_ and I will not have it for the next show!”

Without another word, Sam rushed out, sparing an apologetic glance for Steve before he was gone. Madame Romanov eyed Steve for another moment before she produced an ornate card from her pocket.

“It would seem you have an admirer,” she announced as she handed it to Steve. “The gentleman would like to see you.”

“Who is it?” He asked, frowning.

“Monsieur Brock Rumlow, Vicomte de Chagny,” a voice answered before Madame Romanov could speak. Just then, the man himself appeared in the doorway, carrying a large bouquet and openly leering at Steve. “Well, if it isn’t little Stevie, all grown up.”

Just as Steve was about to ask who he was, it all came back to him. “Monsieur Rumlow,” he greeted, forcing a smile, “I had nearly forgotten completely.”

“Forgot me? After all the trouble I took to save your sketches?”

Steve frowned at the memory. What Monsieur Rumlow had failed to mention was that he had been the one to toss Steve’s sketchbook out to sea. His father, the Comte de Chagny, had been good friends with Sarah Rogers, and had demanded Rumlow fetch every last page.

Steve cleared his throat. “How do you do, Vicomte?”

Rumlow stepped inside the room, removing his deep black suit coat as he did. “Please, Stevie,” he said with a smirk, “call me Brock.”

The nickname that Rumlow was using turned Steve’s stomach but he nodded his head. “Brock.”

Madame Romanov left the room, though her face told Steve she was doing so unwillingly. With that, the door was closed, leaving him alone with Brock. Steve looked around the room, hoping that the Angel was still there, watching; as Brock strode further inside, Steve could feel something begin to rise, an almost tangible shift in the air.

“With Signore Stark gone,” Brock said, looking around the small room, “I see that you’ve taken over.”

Steve frowned. “It isn’t permanent. I’ve been offered the lead until he returns.”

Brock’s gaze focused on Steve then, frightening him with its darkness. “You know I’m patron of this theater,” he said in a light tone as he approached. “I have some sway over the managers’ decisions.”

Steve swallowed, taking a step backward. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Well, Stevie,” he went on, turning away and taking a seat at the vanity mirror, “I suppose I’m just… reminding you that there is more to success than having a talented voice.” A sense of dread filled Steve’s chest as Brock’s meaning became clear. His stomach churned with disgust at the very _idea_ of it. “Now, let me take you to dinner to celebrate your triumph,” he continued, standing and walking toward the door.

Steve’s eyes went wide. “That – that won’t be possible.”

Cocking his eyebrow, Brock replied, “Why is that?”

“My – my tutor, he’ll be… he’ll be coming soon and he’s very strict,” Steve explained, feeling a chill race along his spine.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Brock laughed, “I won’t have you out too late.” Without another word, he opened the door and added, “But you should change first. Wear something presentable. I’ll be back after I get my hat.”

“No, Brock –” Steve tried but Brock ignored him and left the room.

Steve’s breathing picked up as he felt something begin to encroach on the space around him. As a few of the candles flickered, he could hear the telltale sound of the door locking on its own and he slumped down onto his chair, eyes wide. One by one, each of the flames were doused until the room was pitch black, an experience that Steve had mostly become accustomed to in the presence of his Angel.

“That insolent boy!” The Angel bellowed in a rage Steve had never heard from it before. “Ignorant _fool_ , this arrogant would-be suitor! He would dare to stand in your way, to threaten your glory?”

“Angel,” Steve pleaded, “I’m here. I belong to you.” He stood from his chair on shaky legs, looking around the room. “Please, don’t hide yourself from me any longer. Come to my side.” His hands shook as he brought them together in front of him, as if in a prayer. “Please, my Angel, come to me at last. I’ll worship you; I’ll give you everything.”

There was a moment of charged silence before the Angel finally whispered, “Flattering child, you shall know me. Come, see why I hide in the shadows.” Never before had the voice sounded so unsure, so… nervous. “This way,” he went on and for the first time, Steve was certain that he knew where the voice was coming from and he began to move toward it. “Yes, to the mirror. I’m here.”

Steve stepped in close, trying to look past himself through the glass. Finally, a figure appeared, standing so close to him and he couldn’t understand if the face was a reflection from behind him, or if the Angel was on the other side of the mirror.

* * *

**Image** : Steve sees Angel in the mirror | **Art by** : [HopelessGeek](https://twitter.com/Hopelessgeek1)

* * *

“Inside,” the Angel continued, then something strange happened and Steve’s jaw dropped open.

The mirror _did_ move, slowly swinging like a door on hinges, and there, in the corridor, stood a tall, dark-haired man. There was no light around them until the Angel raised his hand up and snapped his fingers. With that, rows of candles that lined either side of the hall erupted in flames, illuminating the path beyond. He wore a black suit and cloak, a matching wide-brimmed hat and… a white mask, covering the left half of his face.

The eyes that stared back at Steve were blue-grey like the sea in a storm, and they were fixed on him. The sensation was so familiar to him, and yet new.

“Come,” the Angel commanded, holding his gloved hand out and crooking his finger. Steve felt his feet begin to move before he had even decided to, and he took several steps closer. “I am your Angel,” the man said.

In a distant way, Steve was aware that someone was banging on his dressing room door. A man’s voice was shouting, “Whose voice is that? Who’s in there with you?”

“Come to me.” The Angel’s dark voice echoed in Steve’s mind and he took his hand, allowing himself to be led across the threshold into the corridor.

The hall seemed to go on and on until they turned a corner that led to a stairwell. Steve was hardly aware of their surroundings, though, as his eyes hadn’t budged from the Angel’s imposing form. Naturally tall, Steve often stood above his fellow dancers, even the men, but not _him_. Broad in the chest and shoulders, his form was both imposing and comforting.

This was the Angel – _his_ Angel – that had promised to keep him and to guard him.

The candles eventually faded out but when they began to descend, the Angel brandished a lantern that illuminated the way with a powerful glow. It seemed to Steve that he knew his way through the dark but used the lamp for Steve’s sake, and a realization swept through him.

“You’re the Phantom,” Steve said, though no fear rose up within him. “You’re the Phantom of the Opera.” The man kept hold of Steve’s hand but didn’t speak, so Steve continued, “It’s always been you singing to me.”

The Phantom turned back to look at him more than once as they continued deeper into the blackness, as if making sure Steve was still there, despite his continued handhold. Each time Steve tried to get closer, the Phantom would look away, not allowing Steve to get a look at his face.

“Everyone is afraid of you,” Steve said.

He caught sight of a smirk on the uncovered side of the Phantom’s face. “Many fear the dark corners of this place, and I must remain hidden in the shadows.”

“But why?” Steve asked as they finally found the bottom of the stairwell.

Steve was shocked to find that there was water before him – a _lot_ of it, and he tried to stop walking. The Phantom let go of his hand and, instead, took hold of his wrist, pulling him along with more strength. As they neared the edge, Steve saw something illuminated by the Phantom’s lantern.

“Is that… a boat?” Steve asked, his brows furrowed, but there was no answer from his companion.

The Phantom stepped into it first, then held out both of his hands to Steve, helping him aboard. Once Steve was seated, the Phantom grabbed the pole and began propelling them through the water.

* * *

**Image** : Steve and Phantom in the boat | **Art by** : [KitysAltMeri](https://twitter.com/KitysAltMeri)

* * *

“Sing for me,” The Phantom commanded.

Steve looked back at him and watched as he lowered his arm, cutting through the air as he gestured to Steve. A strange sensation filled Steve’s mind and before he could even consider how to answer, he found himself singing the lullaby his mother had so long ago taught him. Impossibly, the Phantom sang with him as if he, too, knew the words by heart.

“Show me your voice!” The Phantom’s voice echoed around him and Steve began singing louder, belting out the verses with an ease he hadn’t known he could. “Sing for _me_!”

Soon, the song’s final verse had ended but Steve was still singing loud melodies that echoed off of the stone walls. All the while, the Phantom steered them along through the dark waters of the blind labyrinth.

Somehow, Steve’s voice hadn’t begun to tire as a glow emerged from the shadows and could see solid ground ahead. Finally, Steve was able to stop his song as a sudden feeling of weakness overtook him. Turning to look back again, he watched the Phantom smile down at him with a look of pride.

“Who are you?” Steve asked as he caught his breath. “Really?”

“You know who I am,” he answered. “In your fantasies, you have _always_ known who I am.”

Steve shivered and his eyelids fluttered as he remembered the way he imagined the caress of another, the faceless man in his dreams. “It’s you,” he breathed, eyes wide as the realization dawned on him. “It was always _you_.”

As they sidled up to the edge of the water, the Phantom exited the boat and, again, reached both hands out for Steve to take. Once on solid ground again, Steve was able to get his bearings and look around.

“Steve,” the Phantom said, capturing his attention completely again, “now you are here with me.” Taking Steve’s wrist, he led him away from the water and toward a doorway that was bathed in flickering candlelight.

The Phantom removed his hat and smoothed his long hair back, eyes locked on Steve as he moved. He set it and his cloak aside and then stood in silence as Steve began looking around at the large room they’d entered.

Candles were lit around the room, casting a warm glow over everything, but leaving the corners bathed in darkness. He moved further in and spun around, taking it all in with a sense of wonder. He couldn’t deny that he was shocked by how lavishly it was decorated knowing how far beneath the opera house they had traveled. While the floor was cluttered with books and pieces of sheet music, there were several plush chairs, a fireplace, and beautiful art on the walls.

Looking down, he bent to grab some of the music, but a strong hand grabbed his wrist and pulled it away. He hadn’t realized that the Phantom had been so close to him and, in the candlelight, Steve strained to see his face clearly but, as he leaned in, the Phantom jerked away.

“Wait,” Steve tried, but the Phantom walked to the opposite wall and picked up an old violin; when he began to play it, the confusion and growing anxiety inside Steve seemed to melt away.

Music filled the space, surrounding them both and drawing Steve to the Phantom – to his Angel. His eyelids fluttered as he continued, each step bringing him closer. When they were but a few feet apart, the Phantom set the violin aside and closed the distance. He lifted his hands as if to touch Steve’s face, but held them suspended. The urge to press into them was almost overwhelming and Steve felt his entire being tremble in anticipation of the touch that never came.

The Phantom’s eyes moved over Steve’s face, pausing on his lips before he grit his teeth and grabbed Steve’s hand instead.

Confused, yet exhilarated, Steve allowed the Phantom to lead him to the wall and he looked over the pictures hanging there. They were all sketches of various sights Steve had seen around Paris and he was amazed by the detail in them. It was almost like looking through a window over the city.

However, the subject of each piece began to change as the scenes shifted to interior views and, finally, to people. Steve dropped the Phantom’s hand and stopped in his tracks, studying the piece before him.

Not people. _Person_. _Steve_.

As he looked, he realized that there was more than one drawing that featured him in various settings. On stage, during rehearsal, in the dining hall, and even in the dormitory. He rushed forward and found more art featuring him with the other dancers; he could recognize Wanda, Sam, and Margaret as well. 

He spun around and found the Phantom there, watching him. “Why did you bring me here?” Steve asked.

Stepping closer, the Phantom said, “Ever since I first heard you sing, I… I’ve needed you with me.”

“Why?” Steve’s thoughts raced wildly and unintelligibly. They screamed for him to run away, to stay put, to cower, to give in, but he couldn’t do any of those things.

“Only you can bring my music to life, Steve,” the Phantom answered. “I know your soul longs for it too. I ask for nothing but…”

“But what?” Steve questioned in a low whisper.

“To serve you,” the Phantom answered before taking another step, “to love you.”

Steve’s eyes rounded and he turned away, beginning to breathe faster and faster. “That’s not – why would –?” He tried but had already begun to panic.

Suddenly, he felt too weak to stand and tried to reach one of the seats but must not have made it. The next thing he knew, the Phantom was carrying him somewhere. There was a gentle smile that tugged at the side of his mouth that was visible, and that was the last thing Steve saw before he fainted.

* * *

When Steve opened his eyes, he was met with an unfamiliar sight: he lay in a bed that he did not recognize, surrounded by dark stone walls. Sitting up, he tried to remember where he was or how he had arrived; he recalled rows of candles and a lake of black water, a boat, and –

At that moment, the sound of an organ being played startled him from his thoughts and he whipped his head around. Across the room, sitting before the large instrument was a man. His long hair obscured part of his face but Steve was sure he recalled seeing a white mask covering more. His black suit was crisp and clean, despite living in such a place.

He was playing with such intensity that his body swayed almost violently, as if he had no control. On a particularly long note, he let his head lean back and Steve saw, again, that white mask that covered the left half of his face.

He slipped from the bed and crept closer. The Phantom’s eyes were closed and Steve was enthralled by the idea that he could know such a song by heart. For a moment, Steve was able to stare openly, noting his striking features, at least on the right side. Steve’s breaths began to come faster and faster as he reached out and took hold of the bottom edge of the mask. His thoughts were screaming wildly at him but he paid them no mind as he yanked the covering away.

The Phantom _screamed_ and ran from Steve, holding his hand over the newly exposed skin. Without anywhere to go, he stopped in a dark corner and fell to his knees.

“Damn you!” He cried, huddling as close to the wall as he could. “Is this what you wanted to see?” With that, he turned, revealing horribly marred flesh to Steve, who collapsed with shock. Again, the Phantom concealed himself from Steve’s gaze. “Curse you,” he whispered, “damn you.”

Steve covered his mouth, unsure if he wanted to cry or vomit. The Angel he had dreamt of for so long, his mentor – the kindred spirit that had kept his confidence and made him believe in himself… he was…

“Is it stranger than you could have imagined? Can you even bear to look at me?” Steve didn’t answer and remained there, taking shaky breaths. “This hideous creature – this repulsive carcass – condemned to hell for the sin of this wicked face.”

The mask had fallen on the floor between them and Steve swallowed hard before crawling toward it. He carried it in shaking hands, slowly making his way over to the Phantom, but kept his eyes averted.

When he was but a few feet away, Steve looked up and met his gaze, again seeing the flesh that the Phantom had hidden from him. He turned away again with a gasp, but, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Phantom cover it with his hand.

“Oh, Steve,” he whispered and in his voice, Steve could hear more sadness than he had ever known. “You may… not always loathe the sight of me,” he went on, hope creeping into his words. “You… you could find the man behind this monster.”

Steve bit his lip and forced himself to turn, looking at the Phantom again. He kept his hand up, hiding the deformity, but met Steve’s eyes. He reached out with a shaking hand but dropped it quickly and his face contorted in so much agony, Steve could feel it too.

“Oh, Steve,” the Phantom said again, trembling as tears fell from his cheeks. “I never wanted you to see me.”

For a long moment, Steve stared at him, trying to imagine the life he had known up to that point. What horrors had he experienced? What rejection? What _sorrow_?

With shaking hands, he held the mask up to the Phantom, scooting closer as he did. The Phantom looked at it for a moment, a startled expression in his eyes, before he gently took it and turned away to right himself privately. He slipped it on and smoothed his hair back, then stood up straight, though he continued facing the wall.

He adjusted his waistcoat and shirt collar, then squared his shoulders. The shift was immediate as his countenance changed entirely, suddenly holding much of the bravado he’d had when he first appeared to Steve in the dressing room. He stood up straight and finally turned back to Steve, reaching down to take his hands and lift him from the floor.

“We must return you,” he announced before pulling Steve toward the door. “Those fools who run _my_ theater will be missing you.”

“What?” Steve asked, allowing himself to be dragged.

The Phantom didn’t respond but Steve wasn’t exactly sure what he had expected. So much had happened in the last few hours, he was in shock; confused feelings and jumbled thoughts crowded his mind.

Steve assumed that they would ascend by the same means they had come, but the Phantom led him away from the water’s edge. Stopping before a black stone wall, he ran his hand along a few bricks until he found what he was looking for and pressed the rock until it gave. Once it did, a deep, rumbling sound could be heard all around them and Steve feared the wall would come tumbling down.

However, all that happened was a small doorway appeared, opening to a dark corridor. The Phantom turned back to Steve and held his gaze as he lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. Just as had happened the night before, candles erupted all around them, illuminating the passage.

Not far from them, though, there was one taper that remained stubbornly unlit. As Steve stepped closer, he found that behind the wick, attached to the wall, there was what looked like flint.

“It’s a trick,” he said, turning back to the Phantom. “An illusion.”

“Most magic is,” the Phantom replied, smiling at him.

With that, he grabbed Steve’s hand and led him down the long hall. Steve wondered what time it was or how long he had been with the Phantom. Had he missed the rehearsals for _Il Muto_? Was he cut from the role?

“How long have I been here?” He asked.

“Rehearsals have not begun,” the Phantom answered his unspoken question before adding, “But Signore Stark has returned.”

Steve felt his heart sink. “I see.”

Stopping in his tracks, the Phantom turned to look at him. “Don’t worry,” he said, reaching for Steve as if to touch him. “I will help you.”

Steve frowned. “Why?”

Even with the mask, he could see the Phantom’s brow furrow. “Because…” He swallowed hard before he trailed off and dropped his hand, continuing down the corridor.

They walked for another few minutes before stopping again; this time, the Phantom released Steve and put both hands on the wall. He pushed hard against it until there was a click and it swung open, just like the mirror had. Steve wondered how many such passages existed and who had built them.

Daylight illuminated the dark corridor and Steve squinted and put his hand up. As if it had burned his skin, the Phantom stepped back from it. When Steve looked through, he realized they were standing in the hall outside the dormitories, and he suddenly understood.

“You use these to move about and make the opera house seem haunted.”

With a chuckle, the Phantom nodded. “They can be quite useful.”

Steve stepped across the threshold and looked around. “No one will see?”

The Phantom turned and shook his head. “Everyone is at breakfast. If you hurry, you will make it.”

Steve frowned. “What about you?”

The Phantom blinked before a soft smile spread across his face; even with the mask, Steve could see that the smile reached his left eye. He didn’t respond to that question but, instead answered, “I look forward to seeing you in _Il Muto_.”

With a sigh, Steve said, “It’s likely that I’ll be cast as the Pageboy now that Tony has returned.” He hesitated before adding, “But you’ll watch the show? Even if I’m in the silent role?”

A dark look crossed the Phantom’s face before he blinked it away. “In any role, you will shine.” Steve couldn’t keep from smiling at that and began to turn away when the Phantom said, “You… you’ll come back?”

Steve hesitated for a moment, but he knew that he’d already decided. “Yes,” he replied, “I’ll come back.”

The Phantom nodded his head, casting his eyes down. “That’s all I ask of you, Steve.”

Without another word, he stepped back to let the doorway shut. Once closed, Steve could just barely see the seams if he looked closely but, otherwise, it looked like every other wall.

He hurried to change his clothes for breakfast, then ran down the stairs to the dining hall.


	3. Act II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... update schedule is just not really happening XD  
> This chapter is dedicated to jt341! Happy super late birthday. ^_^ I hope you love it!  
> I've commissioned art from [mma_mookie](https://twitter.com/mma_mookie)! I will add it when she's completed it. ^_^

__

_Act II_

“Look out!” Sitwell shouted with a laugh, making Steve and the other dancers jump and turn to look up at the scaffolding where he stood. “He has yellow, flaky skin and a hideous hole in the middle of his face – no nose ever grew!”

“No nose?” Steve heard one of the other dancers gasp followed by more frightened whispers.

“You must always be on your guard,” he instructed before dangling a noose above them, “or he will catch you with his lasso!”

Several of the dancers screeched in shock at the sight, but were quickly silenced when Madame Romanov appeared, tapping her cane on the studio floor. “Jasper Sitwell, hold your tongue!” She snapped, glaring up at him. “You should worry more for your own neck.” Sitwell merely laughed at her as he returned to his work. Steve watched him cross to the other end and disappear backstage, followed by a shadow that he couldn’t be sure he’d really seen. “Steve,” she called, capturing his attention once more. “Monsieurs Peña and Lang would like a word with you.”

Steve nodded his head and hurried off the stage, glancing once more at where Sitwell had gone. As he made his way away from the stage and toward the managers’ office, he adjusted his costume and brushed his hair out of his face.

Once just outside the door, he could hear Monsieur Lang, shouting, “This note is signed ‘O.G.’”

“Opera ghost,” Monsieur Peña grumbled, “who the hell is this man?”

“And what makes him think he can _demand money_ from us?”

“Or this insistence on creative control! Listen here,” Monsieur Peña said, seemingly reading from something, “‘ _The orchestra was entrancing, but the dancing was a mess. We need another first bassoon, preferably someone who isn’t deaf_!’”

“Oh, and don’t forget, ‘ _The third trombone has to go and some chorus members need to be fired_!’”

“Who is this man? Who would have the gall to send this?” That time, the voice was very near the door and, in an effort to not be caught eavesdropping, Steve raised his hand and knocked twice.

“Ah, Monsieur Rogers,” Lang greeted, flashing him a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you for taking time from rehearsals to meet with us.”

Steve nodded his head. “Of course, sirs.”

“Please, have a seat,” Peña gestured to one of the plush chairs and Steve hurried to it.

“So,” Lang began but stopped when there was a knock at the door. Steve turned toward it and frowned. “Ah, Monsieur Rumlow, please come in.”

“I didn’t realize you were in the middle of a meeting.” Rumlow said as he walked in, keeping his eyes on Steve as he did.

“We’ve just a few things to discuss with Monsieur Rogers,” Peña said, smiling, but Steve could see the tightness of it.

“Oh, what a coincidence,” Rumlow replied, smirking down at Steve. “I was hoping to speak to you about Monsieur Rogers.”

Gulping, Steve shifted in the chair. “Sirs, if I may, I can come again later.”

“No, no,” Lang said, shaking his head. “This is important. Luis, would you…?”

“My pleasure,” he replied, walking to the large wooden desk and leaning forward on it. “I was at an art museum with my cousin, Ignacio, and there was a Neoclassicism exhibit. Now, Monsieur Lang knows me – I’m more of a Romantic kind of man, but there was one piece that was –”

“Luis,” Lang interrupted, shaking his head.

“Yes, yes, right,” Monsieur Peña agreed, nodding and taking a breath. “Anyway, so Ignacio tells me that he was out with the daughter of a dear friend and she tells him that she has this big secret. She overheard her father talking with this old man, Monsieur Pym – perhaps you know the name?”

“Uh,” Steve blinked before answering, “the former manager?”

“That’s him,” he said, “well, he told this girl’s father that he’s wanting to sell his opera house, that he’d take almost any offer. Her father asks him, ‘Any offer?’ and he says, ‘ _Any_ offer.’ Ignacio knows Monsieur Lang and I have a love of the arts, of course, and he called on me to go to the museum so he could tell me what she overheard Monsieur Pym say to her father.”

Steve stared at him for a long moment, wondering if he had breathed once during that story. “Um… okay.”

“So, Monsieur Lang and I call on Mr. Pym that next day and we tell him, ‘We love this opera house and we’ll take real good care of it.’ But he hardly even asks any questions, just tells us to make him an offer, and when we do he accepts it right away. That next day, we come in here and he introduces us around, gives us a tour, and then says, ‘I don’t think I can be of any more use to you, gentlemen,’ and practically runs out the door.”

Peña paused there and Steve looked back and forth between the three of them. “I remember that, Monsieur.”

“Right, because you were there that day, dancing during rehearsal. After that, Monsieur Lang and I return here to this office, and discover the first of these.” He held a stack of notes in his hand. “All signed ‘O.G.’”

Steve furrowed his brow before he finally understood. “The Opera Ghost.”

“Correct,” Lang said, smiling and taking one of the pieces of paper. “This one here is of… particular interest to you.”

“To _me_?” Steve asked.

“Just listen,” he instructed and began to read from it. “‘ _Dear Lang, what a beautiful show it was last night. Tony’s absence was overshadowed by Steve’s debut as the new lead. I’m anxious his career should progress and, as such, in the new production of Il Muto, you will cast Steve as the lead._ ”

Steve gasped, looking around at them and shaking his head. “No, I –”

“Just wait,” Monsieur Lang said, holding up a hand. “‘ _I will watch the show from my normal seat in Box 5 – which_ will _be kept empty for me. Should these demands not be met, a_ _disaster beyond your comprehension shall occur_.’”

“Interestingly enough,” Rumlow said, stepping forward, “I also received a note. I actually believed it had come from the two of you.”

“Us?” Peña gasped.

“Here,” Rumlow said, handing it over to him.

“‘ _Monsieur Rogers is under the protection of the Angel of Music. Make no attempt to see him again. I advise you to comply. These instructions are clear. Let’s not forget, there are worse things than_ –’”

Before Monsieur Peña could finish, Rumlow ripped the paper from his hand and folded it up before tucking it in his jacket pocket. “The rest is just gibberish.”

There was something in his expression that struck Steve; there was sweat on his brow and a twitch at his eye. Whatever was in that note, it had Rumlow scared.

“Well, Monsieur Rogers,” Lang said, “I imagine you know what we’re going to ask you.”

Steve released a shaky breath but nodded. “You think… I know who he is.”

“That’s obvious,” Rumlow snapped.

“Monsieur Rumlow, _please_ ,” Lang said, stepping between them. “Monsieur Rogers, we are _asking_ if you have met this man, if you have any information that could help us.”

“Help you?” He repeated, frowning. “I really – I don’t know anything.”

Rumlow scoffed. “Was it _him_ I heard in your dressing room?”

For a moment, Steve imagined telling them the truth, the strange tale of the Angel that had inspired his voice. In his mind, he led them to the Phantom’s home and watched as they destroyed the man who had offered his secret to Steve.

_To serve you_ , he’d said, _to love you_ , and yet he’d asked nothing in return.

Steeling himself, Steve stood up and squared his shoulders, meeting Rumlow’s gaze. He’d never been a particularly good liar, but he had never been in a situation such as this. “I can tell you, Monsieurs, that if I knew who he was, I would have already come to you.”

“And you have no idea who might wish to help you in your career?” Monsieur Peña asked.

“Yes,” Lang added, “anyone who might have a vested interest in your success?”

Steve shook his head. “I have no one, Monsieurs. My mother passed away several years ago and my father died before I was born.”

“Rogers,” Peña said in a thoughtful way before his eyes widened. “You’re the only son of Sarah Rogers, the violinist?”

Steve smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“She was an incredible talent,” Lang said. “We had the pleasure of hearing her perform.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Steve answered.

“You yourself are very talented, Monsieur,” Lang said, patting Steve on the shoulder.

“Talented though he may be,” Rumlow interrupted, “we still don’t know if he is involved in this Opera Ghost nonsense.”

Steve opened his mouth to defend himself but Monsieur Peña spoke up first. “Monsieur Rogers, return to rehearsals.”

Steve nodded his head and hurried out of the room. Behind him, he could hear Lang say, “As you have already been made aware, Signore Stark is to sing the lead. After all of the groveling we did, he’d better do it.”

* * *

When the Phantom came to Steve’s dormitory that night, he rushed to his side and pulled him into the wall passage. “You can’t be here,” he hissed, looking over his shoulder. “They think I know who you are! They could be watching me!”

The Phantom released a low laugh. “Their watchman left his post an hour ago.” He took Steve’s hand and pulled him along the corridor. “This is _my_ theater,” he continued, “I know all of its tricks.”

The confidence in his voice eased Steve’s fears and he allowed himself to be ushered down the winding stairs that led deep beneath the opera house. This time, he was able to take in his surroundings more and began to notice strange details that he hadn’t before.

Aside from the self-lighting candles, there were speaking tubes that Steve was sure must come out all over the theater, allowing the Phantom to terrify staff and patrons alike.

“How did you do all of this?” Steve asked, searching around for other devices.

“I’ve had plenty of time,” the Phantom replied with an emotion in his voice that Steve couldn’t identify.

For a moment, he wondered how many years the Phantom had spent down there alone. Would he answer if Steve asked? Did Steve really want to know the truth?

Once they stepped over the stone threshold into the open space where the Phantom lived, Steve began to examine the area for more tricks, more deceptions. When he turned around, the Phantom was there, watching him with narrowed eyes.

“Are you searching for all of my secrets, Steve?”

Steve gasped. “No, no, I was just –”

“Steve,” the Phantom interrupted, smiling, “I will tell you anything you wish to know.”

With that, he turned and led Steve inside his home. There, Steve found an ornate dinner table set for two with a full meal laid out. Since coming to stay in the opera house, Steve had eaten the meager repast they offered. He’d always been grateful to have food and a home, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a feast.

“Please,” the Phantom said, gesturing toward a chair. “Sit.” He removed his cloak and hat then and laid them on one of the plush chairs by the fire. As he stepped toward the table, he smoothed his long hair back, ensuring that the mask remained in place.

Steve sat down, though suddenly realized that he only wore his linen shirt and old trousers, while the Phantom wore a beautiful black suit. Looking down, Steve frowned at the frayed ends and worn fabric of his clothing.

The Phantom must have seen Steve’s discomfort, because he said, “You could be wearing one of those hideous stage costumes and still be more beautiful than anyone I’ve ever seen, Steve.”

Steve blushed and picked up the napkin next to his plate. “What nonsense.”

The Phantom smiled down at him as he served the food and wine. In an effort to not disgrace himself, Steve tried to force himself to eat slowly, even though he had never tasted anything as delicious as the food before him.

Had the Phantom cooked it himself? Where had the dinner set come from? The furniture? The masonry to build his home? Everything about the Phantom was a complete mystery to him, yet he was sure that he knew the man better than anyone else.

After taking a sip of wine, he steeled himself and asked, “What is your name? Your – your real name?” The Phantom looked up at him with an unreadable expression and Steve began to panic. “I mean, I – I can… continue to use whatever you wish, of course.”

With a shake of his head, the Phantom confessed, “I don’t know it.”

Steve frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve never had a name,” he explained before taking a drink. “My mother and father abandoned me at a convent as an infant and the Sisters… well, they merely referred to me as ‘the Devil’s child.’” Reaching up, he gingerly touched his mask and said, “This has never inspired enough creativity to offer the _kindness_ of a human name.”

Steve bit his lip for a moment before he asked, “What is a name you want me to use? Any name you like?”

The Phantom looked up at him and, in his eyes, Steve saw a deep sadness that had long been settled there. “There was… an English composer who came here years ago. He was a genius.” He took a shaky breath. “His name was James Barnes.”

“James,” Steve repeated, smiling and raising his glass. “It suits you.”

They continued eating their meal in companionable silence. When they were finished, Steve tried to clear the table, but the Phantom – _James_ shook his head. “I will take care of it later.” He took Steve’s hands in his and led him toward the sitting area before releasing him to grab his violin. “Sing for me,” he said and began to play a melody Steve would recognize anywhere.

With a smile, he began by humming; before long, however, the words burst out of him, matching James’ speed perfectly. James watched him intently and moved around the room, dodging stacks of books that seemed more orderly than the first time Steve had seen them. Turning, he followed James with his eyes, smiling as he went.

Lowering the instrument, James held his hand up and said, “Keep singing.” Steve did as he was told and went on without the music. As he did, James approached him and reached for him. “Will you dance with me?”

Steve nodded his head and put one of his hands on James’ shoulder while James took hold of his waist. He allowed himself to be led through the steps while he continued singing. James’ suitcoat was as soft as Steve had imagined it would be, and the muscle beneath was firm, though he wasn’t sure why that mattered to him.

When the song came to an end, a strange sense of loss began to grow in Steve’s chest as he realized that James would let him go… that their dance would end. Without consciously choosing to, Steve moved in close and rested his cheek on James’ shoulder. James went rigid and Steve started to pull away, but the arm around his waist tightened.

Steve relaxed then and released a pleased sigh. He could feel James’ chest rise and fall in quick, nervous breaths as his other hand traveled along Steve’s arm to wrap around his lower back. Even though they were moving in time, there was no music or song between them but, in the silence, something long buried was unearthed, laid bare.

“We should…” the Phantom trailed off, swallowing. “We should get you back.”

Steve nodded but whispered, “Not just yet.”

He could feel a tension ease inside the Phantom, almost imperceptibly. “Okay,” he breathed, tightening his hold just a bit, “not just yet.”

* * *

They were in the second Act of _Il Muto_ and Steve hid with Carol inside a prop four poster bed. The curtains were all closed but he could hear the trio of singers coming onstage, chastising the Countess for her affair.

“Ready?” Carol asked him with a kind smile, and he nodded his head.

Leaning closer, he wrapped his arm around her waist to appear as if they were in an intimate embrace. When he’d wished to be on stage with her, this hadn’t been what he’d had in mind.

She unfolded her fan and used it to conceal their faces from the audience just before the drapes were opened. Steve covered his mouth in exaggerated shock before shuffling off the bed and adjusting his dress. He flitted around the stage, following Carol’s lead, to much applause and laughter. The audience burst into an uproar as her husband mistook Steve for his mistress’ maid and began to try to woo him.

When the Count went in for a kiss, Steve’s wig came off, revealing the mute to be a man.

Steve shrugged to the audience and began to dance away when a loud, furious voice echoed through the theater. “ _Did I not instruct that Box 5 was to be kept empty_?”

“The Phantom of the Opera,” someone whispered and Steve stepped forward.

“It’s him, I know it,” he said, but Tony grabbed his arm and pulled him backward.

“Your role is _silent_ , you little toad!”

“ _A toad, Monsieur?_ ” the Phantom bellowed. “ _Perhaps, it is_ you _who are the toad_.”

After a moment of hesitation, Tony leaned toward the orchestra pit and gave instructions to the Maestro that Steve couldn’t hear, but the music began to build up again. With that, Tony began to sing the coloratura again and Steve forced himself to continue his role.

However, as Tony was showing off his vocals in a cadenza, he released a horrible, guttural croak and the Phantom’s deep laughter echoed through the entire room. Steve stared in shock as Tony attempted to sing again but every note was replaced with that terrible sound. In a panic, he ran offstage, leaving Steve with a hysterical audience.

Monsieurs Peña and Lang rushed to his side as the curtain was dropped. He tried to sneak away but Lang grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. “We beg your indulgence. The show will continue in ten minutes’ time and the role of Count _will be sung by Steve Rogers_.”

The last part was clearly not only meant for the audience, but for the Phantom. With that, they shooed Steve away and he hurried to the dressing room where Madame Romanov waited to help him into his costume.

That evening, Steve finished the colatura to thunderous applause, and when he came out to bow, the crowd stood up. Flowers were thrown onto the stage for him and he couldn’t hold back the tears of joy he cried.

Sleep refused to come to him that night as a thrill he’d never known before raced through his veins. He sat up in his bed, looking out the small dormitory window at the starry sky, reliving each moment over and over again.

“Steve,” a voice whispered and he smiled, turning to find the Phantom’s form in the doorway.

Steve beamed at him and, without hesitation, he crawled from his bed and hurried to him. Before he could speak though, the Phantom put a finger across his lips to silence him. When he offered Steve his gloved hand, he took it and they snuck into the wall passage.

Rather than going down, though, the Phantom began leading them up a set of stairs. “James,” Steve whispered, “where are we going?”.

“I want to show you something,” he replied and, in the candlelight, Steve could see a soft smile on his lips.

When they next reached a wall, Steve felt cold air coming from behind it and gasped when it opened onto the roof. They stepped out into the night air and Steve spun around, looking up at the night sky. James wore his hat and mask as he had before, but when Steve shivered, he tugged his heavy cloak off and wrapped it around Steve’s shoulders.

The gesture warmed Steve inside as well as out, and he smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he replied, “can’t have you freezing on your most successful night yet.”

Steve nibbled his lip before he asked, “Did you… do that? To Tony?”

The Phantom’s eyes hardened as Steve watched, and he said, “Yes, I did.”

“Is it permanent?” Steve asked.

“No,” he replied, “it will fade in a few days.”

“Is that what you meant by ‘disaster beyond your imagination’?”

James laughed. “They showed you the note, did they?”

“Answer me.” Steve held his gaze.

“It was… one of many potential consequences for not following my orders,” he answered cryptically, and Steve frowned.

“All those stories that you hurt people.” He spun around and looked out over the city. “They say you hunt to kill.”

After a long moment, James asked, “Do you think I would hurt you?”

Steve turned to look at him over his shoulder. “No,” he said without hesitation. “No, I don’t believe you would.”

Stepping closer, James lifted his hands as if to cradle Steve’s face, but he hesitated. “While I’m here,” he said, though his voice shook, “nothing can harm you. I will guard you.”

A tremor rushed through Steve’s body followed by a warm calmness. Before he realized he was doing it, he’d stepped forward and rested his cheek against the Phantom’s gloved hand. He could hear the Phantom’s sharp intake of breath and saw the shock in his eyes, but he merely pressed closer. James’ other hand reached into his hair, exploring Steve with a sense of awe.

James had spent so long alone in the dark, Steve knew, and all he wanted was to be the light that shone over him.

James’ breathing picked up and Steve’s followed suit. He felt a yearning more intense than he’d ever known and he was powerless against it. He reached up and touched James’ cheek, gently, before his other hand brushed the mask. James’ eyes widened and he jerked away, keeping his back to Steve.

“Steve,” he whispered in a dark voice, “this… _face_ would poison any love you could have for me.” Despite the gravity of his voice, Steve could see how his shoulders trembled.

“Your face holds no horror for me,” Steve interrupted, reaching out and touching James’ arm. “It’s in your soul where the true beauty lies. I’m here with you, right _here_.” He used his hold to spin James around and again reached up for his face. “I’m not running away. Let me – let me save you from this solitude.”

James tried to pull away but Steve held fast to his suit coat. “Steve, I –”

“Love me,” Steve went on in a hushed voice, touching the mask once more. “Say you’ll love me every moment, that you want me with you.” 

James’ eyes went wide. “You know I do.”

Joy burst from Steve’s chest and he said, “That’s all I’ll ever ask.”

He didn’t resist again when Steve gently lifted the mask away from his face, revealing a malformed left top lip. The left side of his nose was slightly longer and the skin around his eye was pockmarked and tight, stretching over his high cheekbone. The hair on that side of his head had hardly grown at all, leaving the bare scalp smooth.

Without fear or trepidation, Steve stepped closer until James finally wrapped him up in his arms. Steve allowed him to take the lead, to set the pace, and when their lips finally met, it wasn’t fireworks or bold colors bursting behind Steve’s eyes, but more like a sunrise. It started out slow but then a gentle warmth filled his chest and he had to fight the urge to pull James closer.

The kiss ended almost as quickly as it had begun and James took a tentative step back. “Steve,” he breathed, running his thumb across Steve’s cheekbone. “I have nothing to offer you but my heart and my soul.” He carefully pulled a black stone ring from his shaking hand, holding it up for Steve. “Say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime.”

Steve inhaled a quivering breath before a smile broke out on his face. “Say the word and I will follow you.”

James released a shocked breath but beamed at Steve, taking his left hand and slipping the ring on his finger. “Anywhere you go, let me go too,” he said, taking both of Steve’s hands in his and holding them as if he were praying. “Steve, that’s all I ask.”

“All I want is you,” Steve replied, pressing kisses to James’ knuckles, “always beside me.” His eyes filled with tears and his cheeks had begun to ache from the intensity of his smile. “Say you’ll share each day with me.”

“I will,” James confirmed, beaming at Steve. “Each night, each morning, for the rest of our lives.”

Boldly, he pulled Steve into another kiss, though this one had far more weight behind it than the first. Steve wrapped both of his arms around James’ neck and let himself fall into him. Lifting Steve off of the ground, James spun them around, and Steve laughed as the joy inside him came bubbling out. A sound from far below pulled them from their reverie and James set Steve down again.

“I must go,” he whispered, pressing another kiss to James’ lips. “They may notice I’m gone.”

James took his hand and led him back toward the wall, pushing it open. “Steve, I love you.”

Steve couldn’t help but kiss him again. “Soon, we’ll be together.”

“I’ll be here with you, beside you,” James promised as they began walking down the stairs again.

* * *

In their euphoria, neither of the men had noticed a third person on the roof, listening to their vows with a steadily growing rage inside of him.


	4. Act III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Here's Act III! There is some *ahem* stuff going on here ;) ;) Along with some gorgeous art by Nataliabe. ^_^  
> Please enjoy! <3

_Act III_

Steve’s mask felt itchy on his face, but he was having too much fun to be bothered by it. Everywhere he looked, there were smiling faces and brightly colored disguises. The orchestra had set up on the balcony and the music echoed off of the vaulted ceiling over the crowd. The ball was in full swing when Margaret dragged him into a dance; he spun her around and dipped her low, making her laugh.

As he leaned over her, the metal chain slipped from inside his shirt and the ring landed on her cheek. He jerked her up and quickly tucked the necklace away, glancing around to ensure no one else had seen it. A frown tugged at Margaret’s red lips but she must have seen something in Steve’s expression, because she did not speak.

With a relieved sigh, he turned away from her and rushed to take a drink from one of the staff walking through the crowd. The orchestra was loud but he could still hear his own heartbeat pounding in his chest. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, when someone grabbed his arm and he jumped.

Spinning around, Steve ripped himself out of that grip. “Oh, excuse me,” Brock said, holding his hands up. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Steve swallowed but shook his head. “How do you do, Monsieur?”

“ _Brock_ , please,” he emphasized before taking Steve’s hand and flashing a charming smile. “Could I interest you in a dance?”

“I – I shouldn’t,” Steve tried but Brock waved him off and took his champagne flute to set aside. 

“Come,” he said, taking hold of Steve’s waist and pulling him to the dance floor.

He kept their bodies pressed close, far closer than was considered proper, but each time Steve tried to move away, Brock’s grip only tightened. In contradiction to the slightly rough hold he had on Steve’s hand and side, Brock’s expression was light and amiable as he watched the other dancers.

On a turn, his hand began to move down Steve’s back and Steve yanked himself out of the hold. Just then, the song ended and Steve made a show of clapping before taking another glass of champagne from a tray. As he took a sip, he heard excited gasps come from a group of women nearby, and he looked around him.

He noticed a few partygoers staring at the large, ornate staircase that sat in the center of the ballroom and his eyes widened. At the top stood a tall, broad man in a skull face mask and gorgeous rouge costume right out of Edgar Allan Poe’s _Mask of the Red Death_. The wide-brimmed hat was topped with flashy feathers and gems that shimmered, and gaudy gold buttons adorned the front of the waistcoat.

While attention was meant to be drawn to the man, he was camouflaged amongst the garish regalia that surrounded him. But Steve would know those eyes anywhere. His hand instinctively reached up to touch the ring tucked inside his shirt as he watched the man descend into the crowd and come directly to him.

The orchestra began playing again and the Phantom took both of Steve’s hands in his, leading him back to the dance floor. Steve couldn’t help the heavy breaths he released as James held him close and whispered to him.

“Why so silent, good Monsieur?” the Phantom asked and, behind the mask, Steve could tell he was smiling.

Looking around, he whispered, “You shouldn’t be here. You promised me.”

“It’s a masquerade. You hide your face so the world will never find you.” James made a show of glancing at the crowd to ensure they weren’t being watched before he reached up and touched the ring hidden beneath Steve’s shirt. It was merely a brush of his gloved hand, but they both knew what it meant.

Steve looked around before reaching up to his chest, as well. He whispered, “Think of it, a secret engagement.” James pulled him a little closer, then dipped him, grinning from behind the mask. Afterward, he led them through a more complicated step that made Steve laugh. “I’m glad you came,” he admitted.

* * *

**Image** : Masquerade | **Art by** : [Nataliabe](https://twitter.com/_nataliabe)

* * *

“I hadn’t decided whether or not I would,” James said, spinning Steve out before pulling him in again, “but then I saw that insolent boy’s hands on you.”

Steve licked his lips and tightened his hold on James’ shoulder. There was something in his tone that hadn’t been there before and it only served to fan the flames burning low in Steve’s belly. He swallowed around a dry throat and tried to focus on the steps.

"You… know the Vicomte?" He breathed.

After a pause, James said, "I know of him."

Steve swallowed and looked around. "I knew him as a child."

James' arm tightened. "I know."

Steve decided to drop it then and focus on their dance. It was unlikely that they would have such an opportunity again.

James’ hand slid lower on his back and the repulsion Steve had felt at Brock’s touch was immediately forgotten. This was so different, so _good_ , and he wasn’t sure if it was the champagne or the press of James’ body, but his head felt fuzzy.

When the music wound down, Steve was panting, though he knew it wasn’t because of the dance. He clapped for the orchestra but when he turned back, James’ eyes were intent on his and somehow he knew the feeling was mutual.

“Can I show you around?” Steve asked and James cocked an eyebrow.

“I’ve seen this entire place, Steve,” he said.

“Not like this,” Steve replied, taking James’ hand, “not with me.”

James hesitated for a moment before nodding his head and following behind Steve. They walked into the large hall where the audience would usually go during a show’s intermission, but then Steve led them toward a narrow hallway that was used by the stagehands to move around as discreetly as possible. As they walked, they could hear quiet laughter and moaning coming from the various rooms along the corridor. When Steve glanced back at James, he nearly gasped at the way he looked. His eyes were dark and hungry; his mouth was open as he breathed heavily; and the skin Steve _could_ see was flushed.

They found a small storage room that was uninhabited by partygoers, and Steve pulled James inside and shut the door. It had no lock, but Steve was wholly unconcerned with it as he turned them so his back was pressed firmly against it and James was in front of him.

“Steve,” he gasped in a shaky voice.

Gently, Steve pulled the garish hat off of James’ head and set it on a nearby shelf, then he tugged the mask away. James still flinched as his face was exposed but his anxiety didn’t ease the heady desire in his eyes.

Steve removed his own mask but before he could find a place to leave it, James was kissing him hard. They wrapped around one another and Steve groaned when he felt James’ erection pressing against his hip. Digging his hand in James’ long hair, Steve yanked him even closer still, closing the miniscule distance that had been there. James shifted his hips until they could grind together and Steve broke away from his mouth to moan.

In a show of strength that shocked Steve, James gripped his hips and lifted him, using his bulk and the door to keep Steve there, pressed hip to hip. They kissed again and, though their mouths moved sloppily against one another, it was the most amazing experience Steve had ever had.

Despite it being _his_ bold choice to bring James to that room, Steve had never done anything like it before. James, however, seemed to know just what to do with his mouth and body, and the idea that he had been with someone before… it made something ache in Steve’s chest.

That thought was chased quickly away by a perfectly placed thrust that made him cry out. He reached back and gripped the door handle and took hold of one of the shelves for leverage, so when James thrust again, Steve was able to grind against him. 

“Steve,” James gasped out, “should we… is this alright?”

“More than alright,” Steve urged, rolling his hips over and over until James groaned and began moving too.

“Oh, _oh_ , Steve, I’m – I –” James tried, but Steve understood.

“Me, too,” he gasped out, nodding his head. “ _James_.”

“Please, Steve… say it again – my name, again,” James gasped out, digging his fingers into Steve’s thighs. “My _name_ , Steve.”

“ _James_ ,” Steve groaned and his hips stuttered as he came so hard, his vision went white.

He was vaguely aware of James’ body going rigid before he collapsed against Steve, panting into his neck. Slowly, Steve’s legs lowered to the floor and they leaned into one another as they recovered.

Chuckling, Steve took James’ face in his hands and pulled him into a wet kiss. “I’ll be scrubbing these trousers late tonight,” he joked and James grinned against his lips.

“As will I,” he agreed. “But, _God_ , it was worth it.”

Steve pressed a final kiss to his lips before he grabbed his mask and slipped it over James’ face, then he settled the hat on his head. “I love your costume,” Steve said as he readjusted the buttons on it. “I didn’t get a chance to… say that earlier.”

“Yours is delightful, Steve,” James said, touching the tassels that adorned Steve’s waistcoat.

Steve tied his mask behind his head and adjusted it on his face. “I should return to the dorms to bathe,” he said, nibbling his lip.

James nodded and took Steve’s hand, leading him out of the closet and down the corridor. At a blank wall, James lifted Steve’s hand, pressing a kiss to the knuckle before he revealed a door and slipped into it.

Steve made sure the panel shut before he returned to the main hall. His trousers had grown sticky and uncomfortable as he wound his way through the crowd, so he hurried away from the party. Once he reached the baths, he quickly removed the costume – sparing a sad glance at the stain that he would have to scrub out.

He hurried to wash himself and tugged clean underclothes on, but left the costume to soak overnight. As he made his way toward the dormitories, a firm hand took hold of his arm and yanked him into the shadows. “Hi, Stevie,” Brock said, pushing him against the wall. “I wanted to have a word with you.”

“Brock,” Steve said, trying to pull his arm away, “you’re hurting me.”

Instead of releasing his grip though, Brock reached up and yanked the necklace out of Steve’s linen shirt. “You think you can just hand your _chains_ to someone else?” He demanded in a snarl and Steve’s eyes rounded. “You think I can’t _take you_ whenever I want?”

Steve pressed himself against the wall, trying to put space between them. “Brock, let go of me,” he demanded but his objections only infuriated Brock further.

“You belong to _me_ ,” he growled, baring his teeth. “Your _voice_ belongs to _me_! You sing because _I_ let you!”

In a burst of panic, Steve shoved hard against Brock’s chest and began running back toward the dorms. Once there, he collapsed on his bed and gripped the ring tightly in his fist. How did Rumlow know about James? How could he have discovered their relationship?

However, apart from that, Steve had always known that Rumlow was spoiled, pompous, and arrogant, but he had never imagined that he could be _dangerous_.

* * *

“Monsieur Rogers, thank you for coming,” Peña said as he waved Steve into the office.

“Of course, sir,” Steve said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

“I’m sure you can imagine why we’ve asked you here,” Lang said, rounding the desk.

Steve frowned. “No, sir, I can’t.”

Picking up a slip of paper from the desk, Lang sighed. “Another note came to us this morning.” Steve swallowed hard but didn’t answer. “We have rehearsals for _Faust_ beginning today, as you are aware.”

“Yes, sir.” Steve shifted on the chair. “I’ve been cast as one of the demons.”

“Well,” Lang said, “this… Opera Ghost would have you recast.”

Steve turned to him with a frown. “I’m sorry?”

“Listen,” Lang instructed and gestured to Monsieur Peña.

“ _Dear sirs, the Masquerade was sublime. I truly had a wonderful evening of dancing, despite the utter negligence of the third cellist._ ” At that, Peña broke away and laughed to himself, but when he looked up at Lang, he stopped. “ _I understand that the house’s next show will be_ Faust _and I had some instructions just before rehearsals start._ ”

Peña met Steve’s gaze for a moment then and Steve felt a stirring of anxiety begin to grow in his chest. Was this note from James? What was he planning?

“ _Carol must be taught to act_ – _not her normal trick of strutting about the stage. Signore Tony has put on some weight recently_ – _a very unhealthy appearance for a man of his age. It would be most appropriate for him to be cast as a demon_ – _perhaps one of those who remain unseen._ ”

Again, Peña laughed, but a stern look from Lang stopped him. “Please, continue.”

Nodding, Peña went on, “ _As for our star, Monsieur Steve Rogers_ –”

“Wait,” Steve said, standing from his chair, “star?”

“Please, listen,” Peña said, holding his hand up. “ _As for our star, Monsieur Steve Rogers, no doubt he’ll do his best. It’s true, his voice is good, but he knows if he wishes to excel, there is much more to learn. He must return to me and I will teach him._ ”

Steve’s brow furrowed in confusion. “ _Return_?” He asked.

“Yes,” Lang confirmed as he stepped closer. “We were curious about that as well.”

Peña continued, “ _I entreat you to comply, for if you do not, a catastrophe beyond your imagination will occur_.” He looked up at Steve. “What can that mean?”

Steve met his eyes and shook his head. “No. _No_ , I have no part in this plot, nor do I _want_ one!”

“Monsieur, please,” Peña said, walking around the desk. “We believe you.”

Steve turned to him. “You… you do?”

“Yes,” Lang said, “but… these notes, Monsieur, they have… made Signore Tony… well, he is quite angry.”

As understanding washed over Steve, hot tears fell from his eyes. “He wants me cut?” Neither Lang nor Peña answered right away and their silence only made Steve’s heart ache more. “I swear, I had nothing to do with this.”

“We know,” Peña assured, patting Steve’s shoulder. “You won’t be in this show, but we will be sure that you are given a significant role in the next one.”

“Yes,” Lang agreed, “you are far too talented to risk losing you.”

Steve swiped at his cheeks and nodded his head, feeling a terrible weight settle on his shoulders. Why would James do this?

As he was turning to leave, there was a knock at the door and Peña hurried to open it. “Ah, Monsieur Rumlow. How do you do?”

Brock entered and, as his eyes fell on Steve, a terrible grin bloomed across his face. “I see you had to give Monsieur Rogers the news.”

Peña looked uncomfortable as he nodded his head. “Yes, but we promised him a part in the next show.”

“It’s, uh, too bad that your pal, your buddy, your _Phantom_ had to do this to you.” He crossed the room and squeezed Steve’s arm in what must have appeared to be a reassuring gesture.

All it did was make Steve’s stomach hurt. “Excuse me, Monsieurs. I’ll be going back to the dorms.”

With that, Steve rushed out of the room before more tears could fall. He was vaguely aware that Rumlow was also saying his goodbyes, and Steve did not intend to be ridiculed or patronized for this. More than anything, he wanted to run right to James and scream at him, demand his reasoning for doing such a thing, but he also knew that he was being watched now. Monsieur Sitwell stood near the stage door, smiling at him, and Steve _knew_ why he was there.

This would be the perfect opportunity for them to follow him right to the Phantom.

Steve marched past Sitwell to the stage area where the others were beginning rehearsal. Madame Romanov saw him and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Everyone,” she called, “gather ‘round.” The dancers and singers hurried over, though Steve remained where he’d been. “Monsieur Rogers… won’t be completing his role in _Faust_ , so Monsieur Rhodes, would you take his place with Margaret?”

Rhodey glanced at Steve before he cast his eyes down and moved to the spot she had indicated. It was nice to know that some of his cohorts felt bad for his predicament, but there was nothing that could be done.

Steve turned to leave and walked up the stairs, fighting the urge to run back to his bed and crawl beneath the blankets. When he’d reached the top step, though, he heard a strange sound, as if something heavy had slammed into something else. Just then, a horrified screech rang out and Steve raced back toward the stage. When he arrived, he collapsed to his knees and covered his mouth to muffle his own scream.

There, behind the stage curtains, Steve could see a body, hanging from the scaffolding. The sound he’d heard had been the body dropping from the bridge above the stage, breaking its neck. The noose was made out of bright red rope that he had never seen the stagehands use.

“Oh, God, it’s _Tony_!” Someone howled and Steve’s cries were quickly overwhelmed by the shrieks of those around him as chaos erupted.

‘ _A catastrophe beyond your imagination_ ,’ the note had said, and Steve’s stomach turned.

“James,” he gasped out, gripping the ring beneath his shirt. “What have you done?”


	5. Act IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Hello :D I hope you enjoy this chapter! <3 Beautiful art from CapDeady and kocuria below!
> 
> Parts of this chapter are partly inspired by "The Beauty Underneath" from Love Never Dies but most of it comes from my favorite part of the show - "Wandering Child."
> 
> Please enjoy! :)

_Act IV_

“This _ends_ ,” Rumlow shouted in Steve’s ear as he dragged him to the managers’ office. “What do you know?”

Before Steve could answer, Rumlow shoved him through the doors. “Monsieur Rumlow!” Peña exclaimed, eyes wide at the display. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“He knows who the Phantom is and we all know it!” Rumlow asserted, pushing Steve into a chair.

The arm dug into his rib and he winced, which sprung Monsieur Lang into action. “That is enough, Rumlow.” He came to stand at Steve’s side, shocking him. “This is a horrible tragedy but further violence is unnecessary!”

Since Monsieurs Lang and Peña had taken over, Steve had never seen them take an _active_ role in anything, not even the shows the house presented. On the few occasions that Steve had observed their interactions with Rumlow, they had seemed even more passive, which made perfect sense as he was partially responsible for the financial backing of their ownership.

However, this situation had clearly sparked their assertiveness as they were both staring Rumlow down.

“Monsieur,” Peña said, “if you wish to stay, I request that you sit down and allow us to conduct this interview.”

For a moment, Rumlow looked as if he would argue and part of Steve hoped he would, leading to his dismissal. Instead, though, he simply nodded his head and sat in one of the plush armchairs.

“Monsieur Rogers,” Lang said, stepping closer, “thank you for… coming to speak with us.”

Steve rubbed his arm where Rumlow’s fingers had already left dark brown bruises in his skin. “I didn’t have anything to do with this,” he snapped, glowering at Rumlow. “I was in here and then went to the dorms. Madame Romanov saw me at the rehearsal right before… right before it happened.”

“Monsieur Rogers,” Peña said, holding his hands up, “we know you didn’t do this.”

“This man, though, this _Phantom_ , he must be stopped,” Lang added and Steve felt his throat constrict. “Now, you may not be directly involved but you must know _something_. Maybe it doesn’t feel significant, but it could be.”

Steve swallowed. “I… let me think… for a moment. I don’t know if… let me think.”

He closed his eyes as if he were focusing on his memories when all he saw was James’ face. Could he really have done such a thing? The rumors and myths surrounding the Opera Ghost had always been dark; whispers of missing dancers, mutilated rodents, and a dark presence that haunted the halls of L’Opera Poulaire.

But the _man_ Steve knew, the one he’d kissed and held, could _he_ have done this?

“I’m really… not sure,” Steve answered both Lang and himself.

“Wait,” Rumlow interrupted, standing from his seat. “This is it! This is our chance to catch him!”

“How?” Peña exclaimed. “We cannot refuse his demands anymore.”

“Caution, Monsieur, we have seen him kill!” Lang argued.

“Remember, we hold the ace.” Rumlow smirked, staring straight at Steve.

“What?” Steve jumped to his feet and backed away.

“Let’s play his game,” Rumlow continued, stepping toward Steve. “If Monsieur Rogers sings the lead, this Phantom is sure to be there.”

Lang and Peña shouted together, “We’ll call the police! Bar the doors!”

Rumlow stood barely three feet from Steve, holding his gaze. “We’ll be _armed_.”

Steve gulped but forced himself to remain still, to stand his ground. A flash of confusion crossed Rumlow’s features before his vicious smirk returned. He was the first to turn away, following Lang and Peña out of the office. Their loud voices echoed down the hall as they discussed their plans to capture the Opera Ghost.

As calmly as he could, Steve left the office and rushed up the stairs to the dorms. Several of the dancers were there, weeping and comforting one another. He sat on his bed and suppressed the heavy sobs that fought to escape him.

“Steve,” a shaky voice said and Steve looked up to find Wanda there, eyes almost as red as her hair. “Will you sing for me?” Her cheeks were wet with her tears and Steve nodded to her

She sat on his bed with him, resting her head on his shoulder as he sang softly. Margaret soon joined them, holding Steve close as they wept from fright and uncertainty. He wished he could tell them that the Phantom could never have done this, but… he was no longer certain.

After dinner, many of the dancers returned to the dorm while Madame Romanov remained below with the stragglers. Everyone seemed dazed as they sat in the warm candlelit room, speaking in hushed voices, or not speaking at all. Their eyes were distant and, if they glanced his way, he felt as though they were staring straight through him.

It wasn’t long before everyone crawled into their beds. Despite everything that had happened, sleep took many of them quickly. Steve, however, lay awake for hours as dark thoughts echoed in his mind.

The next morning, exhausted and heartbroken, Steve stood quietly as Monsieurs Lang and Peña introduced him as the new lead.

* * *

Steve tumbled into the dressing room, followed by Madame Romanov. She led him to the vanity seat and then knelt before him, taking both of his hands in hers.

“Steve,” she said in a sharp tone. “You must get a hold of yourself.” She touched his cheek, wiping away tears Steve hadn’t known were there. “Come, try the costumes on so we can get the measurements adjusted.”

Steve’s stomach turned at the idea of wearing Tony’s wardrobe but he nodded his head. She stood and walked to the door, sparing him a sympathetic glance before she left the room. As Steve made his way toward the racks where the various outfits hung, he heard a familiar voice at the door.

“Madame Romanov,” Brock said and Steve rushed over to listen. “It’s time we had a chat.”

“Monsieur,” she answered, “I know no more than anyone else. Don’t ask me.”

“You know something,” Rumlow snapped and Steve nearly intervened, but quickly realized he didn’t need to.

“Monsieur Rumlow, I have been here for almost twenty years. I know a _great many things_ that have gone on in this opera house.” Her tone struck Steve as snide, almost threatening. “Strange, isn’t it?” She asked.

“What?” Rumlow snapped.

“Strange that Signore Tony would go up on the catwalk,” she said and Steve frowned. “Strange that he could be lured up there by the Opera Ghost.”

There was a long pause before Rumlow replied, “Strange, indeed.”

After that, there was silence and Steve rushed back to the costumes to begin changing. Despite the task at hand, Steve couldn’t get Madame Romanov’s words out of his mind.

_Strange that Signore Tony would go up on the catwalk. Strange that he could be lured up there by the Opera Ghost._

“What have you discovered so far?” She asked as she reentered the room, though her expression was… intent and Steve questioned if she was referring to the garments at all.

However, because he wasn’t sure of anything, he answered, “Tony was shorter than me. A bit thinner too.”

Without another word, she nodded her head and gathered three or four of the costumes to alter. “Rest here,” she suggested. “I will return in an hour.”

Before Steve could respond, she had shut the door, leaving him alone. He stared at the candle on the vanity and, each time the flame flickered, his heart skipped a beat.

No matter how long Steve waited, that dark, melodious voice didn’t call to him that night, or the next, or the next.

* * *

A week after rehearsals for _Faust_ had begun, Steve was walking down the corridor past the Managers’ office when he heard Rumlow’s booming voice.

“ _Twenty-thousand francs!_ ” He screamed. “You let him get away with _twenty-thousand_ francs!”

“Monsieur, we had three men standing by! It was pinned to Monsieur Barton’s shirt,” Lang argued. “This man, he slipped past them all, unseen, and stole the money right off of Barton’s body!”

“But he left the pin behind,” Peña added and Steve could just imagine the look Lang was giving him then.

There was silence for a moment before Rumlow said, “This is outrageous. We have a plan to catch him and you do this?”

“Monsieur, if we had stopped all attempts to find him, would it not be suspicious?” Peña said. “Trust us, Monsieur, we can handle it. We’re professionals.”

Steve hurried away from the door then, worried that he might be discovered.

In the following days, rumors swirled as dancers and singers told stories of multiple failed attempts to capture the Phantom. 

* * *

The flowers lay limp and wilting in Steve’s cold hands as he walked a worn path among the stone bells and sculpted angels. It was still early in the day and a heavy mist hung over the cemetery; the grey clouds of autumn concealed the sun, casting a ghostly light over the day. His companion remained silent at his side, but the thump of Madame Romanov’s cane against the ground served as a rhythmic reminder of her presence.

“My mother always loved carnations. She adored their vibrant petals and wide faces.” Steve looked over the bouquet in his hand. “Each year, I would bring her flowers for her birthday.”

“It must have been a wonderful gift,” she said, smiling.

He tried to return it without much success. “We lived together in a house near the sea and I never had to travel far to pick the most gorgeous blooms.”

In the Paris winter, though, the very air seemed to choke the color from the petals, leaving them to droop as the leaves fell away, one by one.

As they turned down a lane, he took a deep breath but immediately regretted it as the musty smell of mud and wet leaves filled his nose. There was no snow on the ground but everything around him was almost as lifeless as he felt.

He pulled his wool waistcoat tighter to protect himself from the frigid air, but it hardly mattered. As the anniversary of Sarah Rogers’ death had grown closer, Steve felt as if the sun faded a little more each day. James’ disappearance had only highlighted Steve’s loneliness.

In the two months since Tony’s death, James had seemingly vanished from the opera house, apart from rumors that swirled among the dancers and singers. The voice that had filled Steve’s spirit with a strange, sweet sound was gone, leaving an emptiness. The music that had filled his mind each night had come to an end, replaced by a longing that made his heart ache. On the few occasions Steve had tried to access the secret passages he had once used, he’d found them sealed shut, and each blocked attempt felt like a knife sliding between his ribs.

“You’ve been different lately, Steve,” Madame Romanov observed.

“Have I?” He asked in a flat tone.

“Yes,” she confirmed and he could feel her eyes boring into him. “If you had been close with Signore Stark, I would understand. But you two were very different people.”

Steve looked at her, aghast. “You can’t be suggesting I would have wanted him to die!”

“Of course not,” she chided. “But I do know that you would not grieve his passing as others would.”

He considered that for a moment before he answered, “I suppose not.”

“In fact,” she went on, “I have begun to wonder if your sorrow could be connected to something else entirely.”

Steve swallowed. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”

She stayed silent for a few moments. “Many years ago, I met a wealthy man who always came to my performances.” Her expression was wistful as she spoke. “He would always toss me a single red rose.” They arrived at a stone bench and she moved toward it. “I need a rest. Sit with me.”

He sat down next to her, trying to ignore the way the cold stone seeped into his skin through his clothes.

“He was very handsome,” she continued. “He asked me to marry him and I accepted. For many months, we spent nearly every day together.”

Steve wasn’t sure where Madame Romanov was going with her story, or if she was merely sharing stories from her life as he had done.

“The week before our wedding, he took ill.” Her mouth turned down in a deep frown. “He had previously been diagnosed with consumption but had kept it a secret. On the day before our wedding, he died.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve whispered. “I had no idea.”

“It was many years ago.” She waved him off and tried to smile but Steve could see the sadness lingering in her eyes. “You may be wondering why I told you this.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

She fiddled with her cane, tapping it against the stones on the ground. “Those of us who have suffered such a loss, we’re changed by it.” She met his eyes then. “Something begins to grow within us. Something dark.”

The intensity of her gaze made him stiffen. “What do you mean?”

“It’s in us forever,” she continued, “in our skin, and bone, and blood.”

Steve watched her stretch her back and could see the elegant dancer she had been all those years ago. While in the dark light of the opera house, she always appeared vibrant and young, but in the cold light of day, the years sat heavily atop her skin. Even her red hair seemed more white then.

“This darkness,” she went on, “it chose us, Steve.” Somehow, her eyes sharpened and Steve felt as if she were seeing into his soul. “Long before we suffered, it chose us. Perhaps, it’s always known who we really are.” As he stared back, he realized that he was breathing faster. “I recognized it in you when you came to the opera house,” she said, “ and I’ve seen it in _him_ too.”

Steve’s eyes went wide. “Him?”

“Him.” She nodded her head before reaching out and touching the ring that had fallen out of his shirt. “I’ve lived and worked at the Opera Populaire for many years, Steve,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I have learned many secrets.”

He gulped. “Are you… are you going to tell the managers?”

She chuckled. “No. I have no intention of telling anyone.”

“Why not?” He asked, frowning. “Are you not afraid of the Phantom?”

With a smirk, she said, “In the dark, things are not always as they appear.” He thought for a long moment but she spoke first. “I don’t fear the darkness, Steve. Do you?”

He had no answer for her – at least, none that would satisfy them both, so he didn’t respond. She accepted his silence, though, without criticism.

“I think I’ll go and say hello to some old ghosts.” With that, she stood up, using her cane to keep herself steady, and walked down the path alone. “I will see you at the opera house later.”

Steve didn’t know what to make of the conversation they’d had, but he realized the flowers were beginning to droop even more, so he, too, continued on his way.

As the Rogers’ family crypt came into view, Steve’s eyes welled up with tears. 

“Little Stevie thought of everything and nothing,” he whispered to himself as he closed the distance. “Little Stevie’s mother promised she would send him an angel to guard him. She _promised_ him.”

For too many years, Steve had held fast to that oath and prayed each night that his Angel would find him. The guardian he got was far different than he’d ever imagined, but his mother’s words echoed across time and space, holding him captive in a way he’d never realized.

Since first hearing the Phantom’s beautiful melodies in his mind, Steve had believed that the Angel would be what made him whole. Never once had he imagined that the _man_ behind the voice was what would fulfill him so.

In the whole of his life, he had never once considered that he might find someone he needed this way. His absence was a stark void in Steve’s life and his loneliness was as sharp as it had been following his mother’s death.

Tears began to fall as he knelt on the stone step before her sepulcher. “Forgive me for not understanding,” he whispered. “Mother, please, give me the strength I need to keep going.”

He set the flowers down next to him and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping his face. He took a deep breath and began to stand up when a sound made him freeze in place. From somewhere in the mist, he heard someone playing the violin, a song he would know anywhere. Looking around, he couldn’t see anyone in the mist, but somehow he _knew_ he wasn’t alone.

“James?” He whispered but the music didn’t stop.

“Too long you’ve wandered in winter,” that dark, melodious voice said, but Steve still had no idea where it was coming from. He stood and began to walk into the fog, spinning around as the music seemed to move. “So lost, so helpless,” the voice went on, “yearning for my guidance.”

“James,” Steve breathed, sure that the voice was coming from near his mother’s grave. “Come to me.” The music continued and Steve walked toward its origin. “My Angel,” Steve pleaded, “do not shun me.”

Suddenly, there was a presence at Steve’s back and a deep voice said, “I am your angel.”

**Image** : Wandering Child | **Art by** : [CapDeady](https://twitter.com/CapDeady)

Steve spun around and gasped, finding James there. His black cloak and hat stood out from the pale mist that swirled around him, while the mask all but disappeared into it. In that moment, he truly looked like a ghost.

“James,” Steve whispered, rushing forward and pulling him into a kiss.

It was gently reciprocated as James wrapped both arms around Steve, holding him close. It didn’t take long before it turned heated, desperate, and all of Steve’s longing and sadness boiled over.

“How I’ve missed you,” he gasped between kisses and James hummed in agreement, fisting the back of Steve’s jacket in his hands. “Wait,” Steve whispered, pulling back and looking around them. “Someone may see.”

James nodded his head. “Come with me.” Nearby, Steve could hear the nicker of a horse as it tapped its hooves on the ground. “Put your hood up,” James instructed and Steve did as he was told.

The two of them riding on the horse’s back was less than comfortable – likely the horse felt the same way – but Steve could only focus on James’ strong arms around him. As if God himself wished to protect their return, the mist grew heavier as they returned to town and they passed only a handful of people on the way.

They left the horse at the stable and James took Steve’s hand, leading him toward a barred window. After a quick glance around, James pulled on a metal latch and helped Steve to crawl through the opening he’d created. They made their way down once more below the opera house, bypassing the underground lake entirely, and coming out at James’ home.

After such an absence, Steve struggled to keep from touching him and it was clear that James felt the same. He ran his hands over Steve’s cheek, along his neck, then over his chest, and Steve gasped as his fingers glanced over his nipple. James’ chest was heaving with his breaths as he led Steve into his bedroom.

Steve unclasped James’ cloak and tossed it aside before reaching for his hat. James clawed at Steve’s linen shirt until it disappeared somewhere, and immediately began mouthing along his collar bone.

No one had touched his naked body before and the sensations were driving Steve wild. He pulled awkwardly at James’ own shift until he relented and leaned back to allow it to be removed. The deformity that marred his face seemed to travel somewhat down his neck and over his shoulder, though it was in no way significant. When Steve met his gaze, though, he could see the anxiety there – the fear that Steve would reject him.

**Image** : My Strange Angel | **Art by** : [kocuria](https://twitter.com/kocuria)

Without hesitation, Steve closed the distance between them and gently took hold of his mask. James didn’t try to stop him but his breaths had become shaky and shallow; the hands that had been on Steve had fallen away as he waited for Steve’s reaction.

Stepping even closer, Steve pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, just above the enlarged lip. James was trembling and his chest heaved, but Steve continued kissing across his cheek bone, down his jaw, over his neck, and to his shoulder. Each spot he touched only made James’ breathe harder and his head fell back when Steve licked experimentally at the skin.

“Steve!” He gasped and something wild took over Steve’s mind. He took hold of James’ arms and led him to the bed, all the while, sucking and nibbling at the raised flesh. “Steve, is this – what do – should we –?”

Steve shook his head but didn’t respond, sitting down on the bed while James stood before him. James’ chest was heaving as he stared down at him, mouth open and eyes dark. With shaking hands, Steve reached for James’ trousers and began to rid him of them slowly. His shoes came off easily and then he tugged the pants the rest of the way off.

Even in the dim candlelight, Steve could see every inch of James’ body, and he reached for him. He tugged James by the hips, leading him closer while Steve lay back on the bed. It wasn’t until James was on him that he realized he was still wearing his trousers, and grumbled.

James’ eyes sparkled as he laughed but Steve was undeterred. He fought to undress himself the rest of the way while James leaned to the side. When they came back together, James lying between Steve’s open thighs, Steve’s eyes rolled back into his head and he released a low moan.

He could still feel James trembling as their lips met again. His long hair fell around them but Steve simply brushed it aside, holding it out of the way as he turned his head to deepen the kiss. James jerked away suddenly and took hold of Steve’s wrist.

“What–?” Steve asked before he realized what had happened.

His fingers had brushed over the marred skin on the side of James’ head, and the touch had startled him. Smiling, Steve reached up again, tracing the raised flesh slowly while James held onto him, though he didn’t resist. In fact, he began to lean into the feeling of it, and moved his hips, grinding their bodies together, and Steve groaned far louder than he’d meant to.

That sound, however, made James go wild.

He dug his fingers into Steve’s hair and bit his lip, moving his hips faster and with more intensity. “Steve, I want to – can I –?”

Without hearing the words, Steve knew what James was asking for. It wasn’t a secret that men had sex and, while it wasn’t accepted or discussed openly, many dancers in the company would whisper of their experiences.

Steve blushed as he imagined what it would be like for James to be inside him, but the embarrassment quickly faded to heady desire. “Yes, do you have –?”

“Yes,” James answered, crawling off of Steve and hurrying to a bureau that sat against the far wall. He dug in one of the drawers before returning and kneeling between Steve’s open thighs. “You want this?” He asked and Steve could see how nervous he was.

Remembering what a dancer had said to his friend late one night, Steve pulled his knees up to his chest and held himself open. James shivered as his eyes moved over Steve’s body, taking him in.

Steve tried to fight the way his skin flushed at how exposed he was but when James held the glass jar up, his self-consciousness disappeared.

James moved slowly and his careful preparation felt like it took hours. The feeling of his fingers slowly opening Steve’s body was odd at first but steadily became more and more arousing. By the time he was wiping his hands on the blanket, Steve was a trembling, desperate mess before him. “Please,” he gasped and James nodded his head.

He dropped forward, resting his weight on one forearm while his other hand angled his cock. The first slow push was a shock and Steve couldn’t help but clench up, taking quick breaths as he tried to relax. James remained still, patiently waiting for Steve, though the pleasure colored his face.

His bright eyes almost glowed in the pale light and Steve wrapped his legs around his waist to pull him forward. James obliged, slowly seating himself, resting his hips to Steve’s.

“Are you okay?” He asked in a shaky voice, clearly trying to hold back.

Steve took a deep breath. “I feel so full,” he whispered.

“You feel amazing,” James groaned as the pleasure overwhelmed him and he jerked forward.

Steve cried out and dug his heels into James’ lower back to urge him forward. He tried to speak but only ended up nodding his head because he couldn’t trust his voice. James understood him though and began to pull out before thrusting back in again.

Each time he moved, he released a deep, throaty moan. His jaw was slack and Steve couldn’t ignore how powerful he felt, knowing he was causing James so much pleasure. James reached down and lifted Steve’s leg over his arm, changing the angle and the next time he moved, Steve cried out.

James grinned and began thrusting in earnest, releasing breathless moans that sent shivers down Steve’s spine. “T-touch yourself,” he whispered. “Please, Steve, I – please.”

Steve nodded and began stroking his dick, gripping the blankets in his other hand. James had gone quiet, apart from his harsh gasps, and he kept his heavily lidded eyes on Steve’s face as each thrust brought him closer and closer to the edge.

“I’m – oh, God,” he stuttered out as he slammed his hips against Steve’s, letting out a dark, growling moan as he spilled inside of him.

The sounds he made, the look on his face, and the feeling of his release sent Steve spiraling over the edge. His body bent forward as he came across his abdomen, moaning helplessly until he collapsed onto his back. James fell forward then, pulling Steve into a deep kiss.

They panted into one another’s mouths as they calmed down. Steve touched James’ face and found wetness on his cheek. When he looked, he found that James was crying but before Steve could ask, he said, “It’s nothing. I just… I never thought…”

Steve wiped the tears away and smiled. “I love you.”

James laughed. “I love you too.”

Carefully, James slipped out of Steve’s body and retrieved a piece of cloth and water from a basin. He washed Steve’s stomach off, then wiped between his thighs in a gentle manner.

“It didn’t hurt,” Steve promised and James met his eyes.

“I’m glad,” James replied, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Steve’s knee. “Let me clean up.”

James stood and returned to the basin, using the water to wash himself as Steve watched. When he returned, he blew out the candle near the bed and lay down alongside Steve, freely running his hands over Steve’s chest and abdomen. It felt as though he were trying to memorize every inch he could reach.

“Why did you disappear?” Steve whispered, watching James’ face in the low light that remained from the other candles.

James was quiet for a moment before he answered, “After Signore Stark was… murdered, they began watching you even closer than before.” He touched Steve’s cheek. “You don’t know how much it hurt to do that to you.”

“I… thought you had left,” Steve admitted in a shaky voice. “I was so afraid I’d lost you.”

James pulled Steve into his embrace, kissing the top of his head and cradling him. “I’m so sorry,” he said over and over.

Steve held him tightly as his eyes welled up. “Please,” he whispered, “anywhere you go, let me go too.”

“I won’t leave you behind.” James didn’t let him go until his tears faded and sleep took them both.


	6. Act V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! **Content Warning**. There is a scene featuring violence and implied threats of sexual assault toward the end of this chapter. Please bear that in mind!
> 
> Just the epilogue after this TT_TT Thanks for coming on this journey with me! It's been so fun and I'm so, so grateful for the artists who collabed and commissioned for me!
> 
> Find HopelessGeek [here](https://twitter.com/Hopelessgeek1)!  
> Find kocuria [here](https://twitter.com/kocuria)!  
> Find [KitysAltMeri](https://twitter.com/KitysAltMeri)!  
> Find [Nataliabe](https://twitter.com/_nataliabe)!  
> Find [CapDeady](https://twitter.com/CapDeady)!

__

_Act V_

Deep underground, there was no sunrise to wake Steve naturally, but somehow he knew it was morning when he opened his eyes. Looking around, he found James there, face still relaxed in sleep. For a moment, Steve traced his features with his fingertips, enjoying the opportunity to feel James’ skin.

However, while he lay there, he felt a heavy cloud settle over them, dark and frightening, and the joyful haze of their reunion gave way to what waited for them.

Steve sat up and frowned as his heart began to beat faster. He had no idea what to do; it was impossible for them to continue on in this way while the managers enacted plots to capture the Phantom. If James wasn’t careful, if he slipped up, he’d be arrested and Steve could lose him forever.

“Steve?” James whispered, sitting up as well. “What’s wrong?”

“They all believe you killed Tony,” Steve said and James stiffened. “You… you didn’t, did you?”

After a moment, James asked, “Would you be here if you really believed I did?”

Steve thought about his answer before shaking his head. “No, I… I know you didn’t but… why did you write that note?”

James frowned. “What note?

“The note about… making me the star of _Faust_.” They stared at one another for a long moment before Steve said, “Oh, my God.”

“What?” James asked.

“That note… whoever wrote it, they wanted the managers to believe it was you.” Steve couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. “Whoever it is, they’re hunting you.”

“I know,” he answered. “Their traps have failed each time.”

“Yes, but –”

“Steve,” James interrupted, putting his hands up. “I know they intend to use _Faust_ to capture me.”

Steve frowned. “What?”

With a chuckle, James said, “This is _my_ opera house, Steve. I know its many secrets.”

“What should we do?” Steve asked, wringing his hands. “If I don’t perform, they’ll know something is going on.”

James shrugged. “You will perform.”

“What?” Steve blanched.

“Yes,” James said, smiling. He stood up and began gathering their clothing. “We should get dressed.”

“I don’t understand though,” Steve mumbled as he pulled his trousers on, then his shirt. “Now, please tell me –”

“Steve,” James interrupted, moving to stand directly in front of him and taking his hands. “Run away with me.”

Steve’s eyes rounded. “What? But this is your home, James.”

“No, it isn’t,” he said, touching Steve’s cheek, “not anymore.”

Steve held James’ hand to his face and smiled. “Say the word and I’ll follow you.”

James beamed at him. “That’s all I ask of you.”

Steve pressed his lips to James’ and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Breaking away, he reached inside his shirt and pulled the ring out, unhooking the necklace’s clasp and slipping the band onto his finger.

“I’ll wear this while I sing for you,” he whispered. 

“I’ll be there,” James promised, “out of sight.”

“How?” Steve asked.

“I know of many ways to see the stage from above and the sides,” he explained. “That’s how I’ve always watched.”

Steve thought for a moment before he gasped. “Wait, do you know who killed Tony? Did you see?”

James looked away. “Yes, I… saw.” He refused to meet Steve’s gaze as he spoke. “It was the stagehand.”

“Sitwell?” Steve’s eyes rounded. He’d seen him just before!

“Yes,” James said. His tone and expression had taken on what Steve could only describe as remorse as he went on. “I should have intervened but… I couldn’t reveal myself.”

Steve scooted to the edge of the bed and hurried to his side. “You can’t blame yourself.”

James sighed. “That isn’t all.” Steve waited for James to speak again. “Sitwell didn’t kill Tony of his own accord.”

“What do you mean? Someone else was there?”

“No, but he wasn’t the one that lured Signore Stark to the catwalk.” James held Steve’s gaze hard. “Someone else did that.”

“But who?” Steve asked.

“I pray we never have to find out,” James said, taking Steve’s hand and leading him through the door. “We must return now. You have only a few hours before the performance.”

Steve didn’t resist but he felt something dark following behind them. Each time he looked back, though, the corridor was empty.

* * *

Steve’s eyes followed Carol as she rose above the stage, surrounded by the golden lights of heaven. He fell to his knees, reaching for her as Faust reached for his love, Marguerite, and the orchestra began to fade.

Once the actors and dancers had all returned to the stage, the curtain opened again and they each bowed in turn. When Steve stepped to the front, the audience stood from their seats, throwing roses onto the stage. One flower caught his attention as it had seemingly fallen from directly above him. When the curtain closed for the final time, Steve turned to look at it and realized it wasn’t a rose at all – it was a chrysanthemum.

_James_.

Behind the heavy drapes, Steve could hear the audience clapping and shouting, “Bravo! Brava!”

  
From somewhere unseen, a voice said, “Bravo, bravo, bravissimo,” and Steve smiled.

He followed Madame Romanov as she led him off stage. They passed several armed men who were standing by, watching him, while others scoured the building for James, but Steve knew they wouldn’t find him. Before he could consider it more, Madame Romanov led him into the dressing room and began to help him out of his costume.

“You were wonderful, Steve,” she praised as she unlaced his garment. “He is pleased with you.”

He stared at her for a long moment, realizing that this may be the last time he would ever see her. They planned to elope that night and Steve couldn’t be sure that they would ever return.

As she stepped away to leave, Steve rushed forward to wrap his arms around her. She stiffened in his hold but relaxed after a moment and somehow he knew that she understood. When she stepped away, she held his gaze for a long moment and he nodded at her.

Without another word, she left the room to allow him to undress and bathe. At the basin, he scrubbed the stage makeup off of his face and neck before reaching up to remove the heavy, itchy costume. Luckily, he had been able to wear a linen shirt underneath it to protect his skin somewhat, but not completely which meant that the hot bathwater stung as he lowered himself into it.

Knowing that James would be coming to collect him soon, Steve scrubbed his face and body clean as fast as he could, however he did allow himself to dip beneath the water for a few moments. The future was so uncertain and there were so many variables that could impact their lives, but Steve wasn’t afraid.

He knew that, no matter where they went or what happened, James would be there with him.

Steve surfaced and stepped out of the tub to dry off, and then dressed in his linen shirt and trousers. Crossing the room, he pulled out the small bag he had tucked away earlier that night and returned to sit at the vanity to wait.

Within a minute, he heard the telltale sound of the lock clicking into place before the candles flickered. As he watched, the mirror swung open and James stood there, smiling at him from behind his mask.

“James,” Steve breathed as he stood up and hurried to the passage, glancing back at the closed door one last time.

“Steve,” James said, touching Steve’s face. “Are you sure? This –”

“I’ve never been so sure of anything,” he answered without hesitation. “I love you. We can go anywhere. We could go to England or Spain, or even America.”

James smiled. “We could go to Manhattan, to the Met. You would charm anyone who heard you sing.”

Taking James’ hand, Steve stepped across the threshold. “Then what are we waiting for?”

His grin widened as he gripped Steve tighter and pulled him along without once looking back. They traveled down once more into the darkness but the hope inside of them kept it at bay.

As the boat moved steadily through the waters, Steve watched James and sang the song his mother had taught him all those years ago. His voice echoed off of the walls around them and James smiled down at him, pride twinkling in his eyes.

Once they sidled up to the landing, James hopped out first and offered two hands to Steve, helping him to step out. He opened his mouth to speak when a figure approached from behind and wrapped a noose around his neck.

Steve shouted in surprise as Brock tightened the knot and forced James to his knees. He rushed forward, but Brock grit his teeth and pulled the rope until James choked, stopping Steve in his tracks.

“What do you want?” He demanded, though his voice shook.

“I saw your little _rendezvous_ on the roof all those months ago,” Rumlow sneered, wrapping the excess rope around his arm to maintain his grip, “and found your secret tunnels.”

“Let him go!” Steve cried. “Have you no pity?”

“Oh, did you hear him?” Brock asked, leaning down to speak to James. “Your lover makes a passionate plea.”

“Free him!” Steve tried to make his voice stronger but he could see that James was getting barely any oxygen. “Tell me what you want!” Grinning, Brock moved forward, forcing James to shuffle along if he didn’t want to be strangled. “He can’t breathe! Show some compassion!”

“Why would I show compassion to this _freak_?” Brock reached down and ripped James’ mask off, tossing it aside.

“I love him!” Steve pleaded, feeling tears well up in his eyes. “Please, let him go.”

“So pitiful,” Brock mused but he loosened the rope, allowing James to heave in a breath. “Now,” he went on, “he wouldn’t be in this position in the first place if you hadn’t _denied_ me.”

“What?” Steve exclaimed.

Ignoring his outburst, Brock continued, “But you can save him.” Steve swallowed as he began to understand what Brock was saying. “Come with me now,” he growled, “ _buy_ his freedom.”

Steve covered his mouth and shut his eyes, sending heavy tears trailing down his cheeks. He looked at James’ red face as he struggled to breathe, and Steve knew he had no choice.

“Don’t, Steve,” James rasped but Brock pulled the rope tighter, restricting his airflow further. “Why make him lie to you to save me?”

Brock laughed. “He doesn’t have to lie.”

“Don’t… throw your life… away,” James rasped but Brock glowered and lifted the rope until James’ knees were hovering above the ground and his eyes began to roll in the back of his head.

“His life is now the prize that you must _earn_ ,” Brock asserted.

“Please,” Steve whispered, shaking his head, “please, let him go.”

Brock’s lips drew back in a snarl. “You try my patience.” Jerking the rope until James choked, Brock added, “Make your choice.”

Steve watched James’ face begin to turn purple as his airway was cut off completely, and he grit his teeth. Taking a few steps forward, he whispered, “God, give me courage,” before reaching out and taking Brock’s face in his hands. He pulled him into a kiss that Brock took full advantage of, opening his mouth to force his tongue past Steve’s lips. Steve swallowed down the revulsion as he pulled back for a moment. “Release him,” he whispered before kissing Brock again.

The sound of James’ gasping breaths sent relief rushing through Steve and he stepped closer to Brock, praying that James would get away quickly.

He didn’t want him to have to see anything that Brock would do next.

A noise caught Steve’s attention but Brock had a hold of his hair and his grip didn’t relent. That was until something smashed into the side of Brock’s head, pushing both he and Steve into the water.

In a rush, Steve surfaced and pulled himself onto the landing, finding James there, holding the quant in his hands. “Come on,” he croaked, helping Steve out of the water. Yanking the noose from around his throat, he tossed it away and pulled Steve into a hug, despite his soaked clothing.

Before they could say another word, though, water splashed as Brock climbed out of the lake. Blood seeped from a gash on the side of his head but he seemed almost unaware of it as he lumbered toward them, teeth bared in rage. 

In the distance, Steve could hear voices and he knew that Brock had led them to James’ home on purpose. He intended to see the Phantom killed or captured whether or not Steve agreed to be with him.

His choice had never mattered – Brock just _had to win_.

“Look how hard you fought,” Brock sneered, reaching into his wet jacket, “only for both of you to die here.”

Steve gulped as Brock brandished a long, thin blade. When he lunged forward, Steve pushed James out of the way and shouted when the knife caught his arm. His wet shirt clung to the skin as blood spread across the white fabric.

“Steve!” James exclaimed before he rushed at Brock, tackling him to the floor.

In the struggle, the knife clattered to the ground. Despite not having a weapon, though, Brock was a dirty fighter and he yanked at James’ hair and punched him in the throat, making him cough and wheeze.

Using his own weight and James’ lack of balance, Brock threw him to the side and jumped to his feet. When he took a step toward Steve, though, James reached out from the ground and grabbed his ankle, trying to hold him in place. Looking down, he scoffed and kicked James in the face with his free foot.

That sent a rage through Steve that dwarfed the fear he’d felt moments before. He ran forward and swung his fist at Brock’s face but didn’t stop when he made contact the first time. He hit him over and over, relishing in each yelp and grunt that he released. As a boy, Steve had been in many scraps, fighting off bullies twice his size, including Brock on more than one occasion.

That had been many years before, though, and Brock was bigger and stronger than he’d been then. He pulled himself together and deflected Steve’s next swing, before retaliating with one of his own, sending Steve stumbling backward.

When he looked down, Steve saw that James wasn’t moving and grit his teeth. Brock’s knife lay on the ground and Steve rushed forward, snatching it up before Brock could reach it. He held it up in shaking hands as Brock stared him down.

“You think you can do a thing with that?” He laughed. “You’re still just a scared little boy, Stevie. Put it down now and come with me.”

Steve’s chest heaved with each breath. For a moment, he stopped and thought about what he should do – what was right to do. If he did as Brock demanded, he might save James’ life… but he knew that both of their lives would be over.

He remembered the way Rumlow had touched him at the dance; how he’d slammed him into a wall to threaten him after. He remembered the way James had looked with that noose around his neck, choking and terrified.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Steve admitted, leveling his gaze at Brock before planting his feet more firmly, “but I’ll have to find a way to live with it.”

Brock snarled and rushed forward. He immediately reached for the knife, but Steve turned his body and slammed his shoulder into Brock’s chest, knocking him off balance. Brock grabbed Steve’s shirt and tried to use it as leverage, but Steve was ready, and he thrust the blade into Brock’s chest.

The grip on his shirt loosened as Brock stared down at the knife. He tried to turn away but stumbled, falling to the ground and spitting out blood. Steve knew he’d hit his lung, because his breaths were heavy and wheezing.

Steve had never killed anyone, but he’d also never had to fight for his life – or someone else’s – before.

Just then, James released a low groan and Steve rushed to his side, brushing his hair out of his face. His nose was bleeding and his lip was cracked from Brock’s boot, but he was alive. Steve helped him stand up and wound his arm around Steve’s neck to help take his weight.

“I fought so hard… to free you,” James choked out and Steve nodded his head.

“We’re safe,” he promised, glancing back at Brock’s body, surrounded by a pool of dark blood.

Steve carried James to one of the chairs and sat him down before running back to the boat to fetch his bag. On the way back, he grabbed James’ mask that Brock had thrown aside, and hurried back to James’ side. He tore his wet shirt off and used it to gently wipe the blood away from James’ nose and chin, then checked him over more thoroughly for other injuries.

“Steve,” he croaked, “I’m fine.” Steve released a sob as tears welled up in his eyes. James pulled him close and held him, rubbing his back as he whispered, “You saved my life. You saved _us_.”

“I would… do anything to protect you,” Steve whispered and James inhaled sharply.

“I know,” he said, “I know.” He leaned back against the seat and touched Steve’s cheek. His smile was pained but that didn’t dim its beauty as he asked, “Will you share your life with me, Steve?”

Steve swallowed and nodded his head. “Say the word,” he whispered, “say the word and I’ll follow you, James.”

The distant voices grew nearer and nearer, and Steve heard the sounds of water splashing. The police were close and he knew James could hear them too.

James’ joyful expression faded a bit and he said, “This will never be easy, Steve. Our life could be dark and –”

Steve shook his head. “No more talk of darkness. I’m here and nothing will come between us.”

James winced as he sat up, but he held Steve’s gaze. “Wherever you go, I’ll be there with you, beside you.”

“Well then,” Steve beamed at him, taking James’ hand and standing him up, “what are we waiting for?”

They each grabbed a bag and James led them toward a wall near his bed. Meanwhile, Steve tugged a dry shirt on and tossed the bloodstained one away.

“I never use this way,” James grunted, shoving at the wall until it gave way.

“Where does it go?” Steve asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“It leads to the street.” James took Steve’s hand again and hurried through the opening.

“Where to from there?” Steve panted as they hurried up the stairs.

“To Calais,” James replied, smiling back at him. “We’ll find a freighter out of France from there.”

When they reached the top, there was a window with bars and James lifted the grating to pull it away, opening a pathway. After he climbed through, he helped Steve over and then replaced the bars. Once the window closed, it looked impenetrable.

Even if the police found that passage, they wouldn’t know it was the one that they had used to escape.

The alley was stark but Steve could hear voices, so they crept along the street in the dark, hand in hand, toward their new life.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm not crying, you are. TT_TT Thank you all for coming with me on this fun journey! A big thank you to dixons_mama for being the best beta (and pal) ever. She wrote the first news article here and is just the greatest all around!
> 
> Another huge thank you to all of the artists involved on this work! I was so lucky to get to work with all of you <3
> 
> The epilogue is pretty short, and it's less connected to Phantom of the Opera and more its sequel, Love Never Dies. I'm sorry if you aren't a huge fan of that play, and I hope you're not disappointed as a result. :(
> 
> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think! <3

**Image** : Le Courrier March 1882

* * *

_Epilogue_

Madame Romanov stood before the large mirror in the dressing room, as workers carried items out to make room for the new adornments. Despite the raucous they were stirring, the glass barely trembled.

She smirked at her reflection.

* * *

Steve stood on the balcony, staring at the horizon as the sun rose over the sea. There was a quiet sound behind him and he smiled when he felt a pair of arms wrap around his waist.

“Morning,” he said, leaning back against James.

Soft lips pressed a kiss to the side of Steve’s neck before James hummed. “You’ve been swimming.”

Steve nodded, turning to look at James over his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing his mask and the early morning light gently touched his marred skin, almost making it glow. “I love sinking into the sea each morning,” Steve sighed. “It makes me feel… free.”

James nodded, then paused for a moment, staring out. “The water here is so different than France, or even England.”

Turning around in James’ arms, Steve pulled him close and kissed him. “I’d always heard of Coney Island,” he said, “but never once believed I’d see it.”

James looked out over the Wonder Wheel as it stood stock still in the dawn light. “I never thought I’d see the ocean.”

Steve beamed at him. “We can go anywhere.”

“I’m happy here,” James said as his eyes moved over the landscape. He took Steve’s face in his hands and went on, “If it weren’t for you, I’d have lived in darkness for the rest of my miserable life.”

_Something begins to grow within us. Something dark. It’s in us forever, in our bone, and blood, and sinew. It chose us. Long before we suffered, it chose us. Perhaps, it’s always known who we really are._

As the sun’s rays bathed the world in light, Steve touched James’ marred cheek. “I would live in the dark forever if it meant being with you.”

“Lucky for us,” James murmured with a smile as he leaned into Steve’s touch, “the lights never die on Coney Island.”

Steve pulled him close and kissed him. “This is only one of the many wonders we’ll see together.”

James cocked his eyebrow and kissed back. “I was thinking about something.”

“Yes?”

“What if we opened our own park here?” He turned them and waved his arm, as if drawing a picture for Steve to see. “We could put on vaudeville shows. I would write the music–”

“And I could dance and sing,” Steve interjected, his excitement brimming. “Can you imagine it?”

James nodded, grinning at Steve’s exuberance. “I can.”

Steve’s eyes went wide and he gasped, “Oh! I can just _hear_ it!”

“What?” James frowned.

Steve grinned. “‘Welcome to Phantasma!’”

* * *

**Image** : New York Tribune May 1883

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/humapuma817) or [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/humapuma)!
> 
> Find HopelessGeek [here](https://twitter.com/Hopelessgeek1)! Find kocuria [here](https://twitter.com/kocuria)!


End file.
